


Walkers of the Lonely Path

by BrowneAshes



Series: Sin to Heaven [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Bechdel Test Pass, Canon Compliant, Canon Dialogue, Depression, Dissociation, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Heavy Name-Dropping, Kind solas, Long, Multi, Politics, Possible Triggers? Let me know pls, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Pro-Elf, Pro-Mage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-08-09 05:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16444031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrowneAshes/pseuds/BrowneAshes
Summary: The darkest path is filled with sorrows, yet I will stand the test.A Solavellan fic, in which I explore various conspiracy theories, lore theories and meta. The relationship is a major focus - but I do not intend for it to be the major focus.Will be long, involved and as in depth as I have patience for.A helluva lot more involved thanLoyaltyandFreedom's Call.Same time-line.Spoiler Tags: Friendly Solas, "Redeem" playthrough. Heavy on some revolution and difficult matters of choice and politics.Chapters Marked with the subfix "A" are art, not writing, generally relating to the previous chapter.For enjoyment purposes - should it be listened to off shuffle, it does progress along the lines of the story.Spotify Link for Inquisitor Varen Lavellan.





	1. The Looming Gloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ First to the Keeper on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/kate.browne/playlist/0CEmg6a7dyVTvEQ2aMyrCL?si=-Pw3YvjXSGWGAvW7tBSxZQ)
> 
> ...the spotify playlist got too long... oops.

Varen’s journey began at sunrise. The majority of the camp was still asleep in their aravels. The only life that came from the camp was the snoring of the sleepers and the lanterns on the back doorstep protecting any early risers or those needing to answer nature’s call in the dark. Only the night’s watch were about, leaning on their staves and bows or nearby trees with comfortable ease.

They waved as she passed, acknowledging their First’s presence with the quiet deference that her position demanded.

“Heading out already?” one of them asked, offering her a cup of warm tea to help wake her.

Varen accepted it gratefully. “Mm,” was all she said before she lost herself in her enjoyment of the drink. “You put rose petals in it, Falos,” she observed, smiling over the steam rising out of the cup.

“Always, can’t drink it otherwise. Take it with you, girl,” the old man said, “Not yet winter, but it’s getting awfully chilly.”

“Where is the Keeper sending you?” his partner asked, hoping that this morning Varen would finally have an answer for him.

“East,” Varen replied, savoring another sip of tea.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” she affirmed with a wry grin as she watched Hanan’s expression deflate. He always wanted to know more. Know everything. He was often disappointed, and frequently tormented by those that knew more than he did, until of course his incessant questioning drove them mad. There was a reason that the boy wore Dirthamen’s vallaslin – and the only ones able to withstand him were others like him. Others like Varen.

“Thank you for the tea,” she said, raising her mug in toast to Falos, who raised his in return.

“Walk softly, Varen, may the Dread Wolf never catch your scent,” he cautioned as Varen with staff in one hand and tea in the other set of toward the rising sun.

The truth was, that not even Varen was entirely sure why Deshanna had sent her out that morning. She had her own inklings, naturally, but her Keeper never explicitly stated. It was her way, on occasion, to let her apprentice find her own path. “The best lessons,” Deshanna once said, “were those learned independently.” It was true – and moreover, Deshanna would not always be there to guide her. One day, it would fall to Varen to protect and guide the clan; she had to be able to come to those decisions on her own and feel confident in them.

It often meant she took long, seemingly pointless walks in one direction or many directions until she finally came to the realization of what important skill or piece of knowledge Deshanna meant for her to have. She walked a lot when she was younger. Varen had been a stubborn and willful student in her youth. There was a small part of her that wondered if Deshanna breathed thanks to the Creators that she mellowed some as she'd gotten older. Probably.

The purpose of this walk had been the source of a growing sense of anxiety for several days. Deshanna had called it “momentous.” Varen didn’t want to admit it, but she knew the truth of that in the depths of her soul. The world was changing, and it could not be said whether it was for the better or the worse. The unknown was terrifying. And there was something great and dark and terrible looming on the horizon, hurtling toward them like a summer gale off the sea.

It was not long at all, just before noon, when Varen saw the first signs of life – life that had no purpose nor belonged to the forest. Whispers echoed through the trees, twisted and drifting in from every direction in that eerie way that frightens children before they learn the ways of the trees. They were almost directly in her path, off the trade roads, which meant this small group of shemlen were not merchants, not farmers or peasantry, and it was doubtful they were templars or soldiers.

As she edged closer, forgoing the bulky staff she carried so that she may sneak in among the bushes, Varen heard rather than saw their clumsy mannerisms. They talked too loud, and yet didn’t. They were used to being watched – but in a confined space, watching specific corners not an entire circle around them. Anxious and yet their voices held the tremulous joy of children who dared to go where their parent’s had forbidden them.

When she finally saw these intruders, Varen understood immediately. Six people, of varying age, height and race, and each one robed in the manner of shemlen mages. They were likely no danger to her – or to the clan – but they were still very, very near.

Varen watched, concealed in the shadows as they started a small cook-fire to make their lunch. They talked of Starkhaven, of Kirkwall, of Val Royeax, Rivain and Tevinter. They were headed north, though they had no map, and no real way to navigate. But they were hopeful. They were free. Varen had debated leaving them, but in the end, she had decided to do the exact opposite.

The key was snapping a twig. With that, the mages would be aware of her presence before she snuck up on them. They would be ready to strike her, but she would not surprise them and ensure her death. Her ploy worked.

“Who’s there?” the oldest mage snapped, standing up so quickly his salt and pepper hair fluttering as if caught in a strong breeze. The others were also on their feet as well, robes swirling, and fingers flashing with fire, lightening and the raw yellow, green and black tendrils of mana.

“Peace,” Varen asked, stepping out of the shadows with hands raised, open palms, devoid of magic.

A few of their eyes widened in surprise, and terror. All of them looked at her with suspicion.

“What do you want,” the leader asked. None stood down.

“Peace,” Varen repeated with a coy smile. “Nothing less.”

The youngest, of Elvhen blood stepped forward, swallowing his fear down. His eyes were strange, hopeful – Varen had often heard that some in the alienages looked to the Dalish to save them. It would not be Varen who stepped forward to do so, though Keeper Istamathoriel, and other Keepers, hunters and entire clans were friendly to the shems.

“You’re Dalish-” he began.

“Obviously,” Varen interrupted.

The boy frowned back at her, but tried to keep his enthusiasm. The oldest reached for him as he stepped out of the line of mages. The boy’s hand raised, sans magic or trick, and extended toward Varen.

She watched him curiously, but did not take his hand. Instead, hers dropped, and she bowed to him. “You are heading north?”

“How much did you hear?” one of the women asked, stepping forward menacingly. “How long were you there?”

“Long enough. You are loud,” Varen said with a shrug. That seemed to terrify them. “Circle your fire with stones next time – and smother it when you are down, lest you want your fire to follow you north.”

“What do you want?” the eldest asked, banishing the magic he had summoned. A few of the others followed his example.

“I would ask the same of you. This is our forest.”

“Your forest,” the young elf corrected. “Right?”

Varen turned a curious eye toward him. “Mine?”

“You don’t have a bow, or a knife, or a sword,” he pointed out, nodding his head in her direction. “You’re not a hunter, or a scout. And you’re a lone,” he explained. “You’re a Keeper.”

Varen couldn’t help but smile. “Clever boy. But I am not a Keeper.”

“Yet,” he said, grinning with cocksure pride.

Varen only grinned back at him. He never got his straight answer – and he didn’t need it. She turned to the eldest and leader.

“Where are you from?”

He swallowed, wondering whether or not to answer. He glanced at the young elf.

“Don’t answer her,” the woman cautioned, eliciting a murmur of assent.

“She’s a mage, Mara,” the boy said. “She’s safe.”

The oldest looked back at Varen, and sucked on his teeth, thoughtfully. Finally, under Varen’s patient gaze he answered, “Ostwick Circle.”

“Where are your Templars.”

“Hopefully lost,” he said. “We led them in circles.”

“And now we’re lost ourselves,” another mage piped up, bouyed by his comrades ease of conversation with the Dalish elf.

“We’re not lost,” the oldest snapped.

“Where are you then?” Varen inquired.

“Near Bastion,” the man replied. “I figure… maybe three days to the north east. We crossed the Minater yesterday.”

“You’re about six days off,” Varen said. “You’re about a day’s walk from Wycome,” Varen said, pointing to the east. “The river you crossed was probably just one of the tributaries.”

A ripple of discontent and terror spread through the group. The templars might be closer than they thought.

“You’ve no map?”

“No,” the oldest mage quietly stated.

“Are you going to Tevinter?” Varen asked, side-eyeing the few elves that were in the group. It might not be the best idea…

“No… we thought, Rivain,” he replied. He gestured to his companions, “Becca, Moira, and Garrick are elves. We feared for their safety. Rivain seemed… safer.”

“I know little of them. But you are probably right. Are you familiar with the constellation the Hidden One,” Varen asked, gesturing to the northern sky. “He is seated, with his head obscured by a veil or mist.”

“Yes… but we call her Eluvia,” a shemlen woman stepped forward.

“Eluvia...” Varen murmured softly, thinking. Not a very fitting name for the Hidden One. “Travel by night, follow him. He will take you north, though once you leave this area I cannot say what you will encounter.”

“Thank you,” the eldest man said, awed that they would be aided by one of the fabled Dalish savages. Varen turned to leave.

“Wait,” the young elf asked, reaching for her hand, “Thank you.” He pressed a small amulet into her hand, carved with little images of birds and fish. Varen looked at the abalone carving with an expression unreadable to the young man.

Silently, she nodded, and disappeared into the shadows of the forest, leaving the surprised mages alone.

She had not walked twenty minutes before she discovered Keeper Istamathoriel sitting patiently on a rock, holding her staff against her chest.

Varen stopped in her tracks. “You look like an old woman leaning on her walking stick as if it were her last hope of life.”

Deshanna snorted.

“Was that was you wanted of me?”

“Was it, Da’len?” Deshanna shot back with a grin.

Varen sighed. Best not to answer now. Instead, she closed the distance between them and came to sit in the leaf litter at Deshanna’s feet.

“There are more and more mages coming through these areas,” Varen said.

“Yes.”

“I heard there was a vote they passed,” Varen said, “declaring themselves free.”

“Yes.”

“Blaen, the mage who joined us a fortnight ago, she said the same thing to you?”

“Yes,” Deshanna said, her smile fading into a somber expression. She watched Varen carefully.

“This changes everything,” Varen stated.

“Not yet. There is something bigger on the horizon,” Deshanna replied. “You have heard it, and felt it better than I. You are better at hearing the secrets of the world. You are better at listening to them. What do they tell you?”

Varen was silent. There was something dark in her sleep, endlessly tormenting her. It was not a spirit – she knew the Fade well enough. She knew spirits; she was not afraid of possession but there were other things pressing on her mind. Desperate to get out.

Change was coming. A great terrible vibration, a rumble like thunder that would not stop. She hadn’t slept well for months. Not three weeks ago, she made sense of it; made sense of herself. Varen could no longer call herself First to the Keeper. This would no longer be her place. She had yet to confess this Deshanna. She doubted she ever would, or could. Time would tell.

“Go,” Varen simply stated, hoping her answer was vague enough to answer, but not encourage more questioning.

Deshana nodded. “Go south. There is a conclave to be had soon – in a place called Haven, in the south of Ferelden.”

Varen closed her eyes and sighed.

“I want you to attend. Whatever happens with these mages and the shemlen’s Divine, we have to know. It will impact the entirety of Thedas.”

“I know,” Varen whispered. “Am I to go alone?”

“No; take Nethras and Ralath with you. I have arranged passage for you over the Waking Sea.”

“How?” Varen asked.

Deshanna looked uncomfortable, and only smiled. “I have my connections.”

Varen eyed her Keeper carefully. She did not like how that sounded.”Who?”

“Another clan to west.”

“Which one?”

“Da’len-” Deshanna chuckled, trying to brush off the inquisitive nature of her First.

“Keeper,” Varen firmly interrupted.

Deshanna knew that look. Creators, she was as willful now as she was when she was younger. She sighed, and shook her head. “You are the reason I have so many grey hairs, Da’len. Clan Sabrae.”

“They can barely keep their Halla,” Varen blurted. The clan had been without them for years, stuck on Sundermount, pleading for aid while their First had traipsed off to wreak havoc on- Oh no.

“Keeper,” Varen laughed, “You did not.”

“Merrill was a good girl, if a bit off. You met her at the Arlathvhen,” Deshanna replied, “And she was only too happy to help. She arranged for the ship to take you. She said their captain comes highly recommended.”

Varen shook her head. Merrill had been sweet it was true – still one only heard rumors from Kirkwall and Clan Sabrae anyway. Between that and the Blight Warden, they were practically famous – and still they could hardly be reached. Varen quietly blamed Marethari – she never seemed to be the wisest of Keepers.

“Come,” Deshanna said, raising to her feet, she offered her hand down to her First. “You have much to prepare for.”

Varen took her hand and followed. “Keeper, how did you know those mages were here?”

“I didn’t. I thought you’d end up at Wycome. This is better,” she stated with a chuckle. “Not as far to walk.”


	2. Clan Lavellan - A




	3. Last Meal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 3/17/2019  
> Notes: Expanded on the family and relationships, so you have people rather than just fuckin names. I'm learning, I'm learning. 
> 
> Summary: Varen's last meal with her family.

It was dark by the time they reached camp once again. The watch had made an entire cycle, leaving Falos and Hanan just taking their posts as the Keeper and her First returned. They raised their hands in greeting.

“Welcome back,” Falos greeted them, catching the empty mug Varen tossed him. “Find your answers?”

“I did.”

“Where did you go?” Hanan blurted.

“I infiltrated Wycome’s palace,” Varen replied without a moment’s hesitation. Falos rolled his eyes.

“Really?” Hanan asked, eyes aglitter with excitement.

“Nope,” Varen replied as she strolled off toward her aravel, leaving Hanan in a fit of frustration. She could hear him grumbling and sighing in response to Falos’ laughter.

Deshanna had parted ways; off to gather her companions and ready them. The conclave would be very soon, Blaen said. They’d need to leave now if they would make the journey in time. That left one night for Varen to pack her things and set her affairs to rights.

She felt strangely like she would be going to her death. She gazed forlornly at her belongings in their perfectly organized spaces in her aravel and felt only emptiness. Nothing felt like it was hers. She felt like an alien in her own home.

“Fenedhis,” she softly cursed. There was little else to do but pack anyway. She took what necessaries she needed, leaving the superfluous. She would be back soon, she kept telling herself. The voice did not sound like hers.

Eventually, she broke down and resorted to prayer. It was not something she did often; at least not formally. And rarely did she offer prayers to more than one god. Tonight, however, she felt sick and restless.

Frankincense for wisdom, knowledge and guidance through the unknown… Sandalwood for strength and perseverance, and protection. And then valuable and rare eucalyptus; hard to find from merchants in this area – it was this that she chose to burn tonight. Varen breathed a prayer to Mythal as the smoke drifted toward the roof of the aravel, swirling around her like a warm embrace.

“Protect and guide me, Mother,” Varen murmured.

A sense of calm and relaxation did not overtake her. In fact, almost the exact opposite happened as the door to her aravel flew open and in stepped a tall, dark haired elf with anger in his eyes. He was perhaps a year or two older than Varen, with the same fair skin and Andruil’s bow painted on his face. “We need to talk,” he growled.

“This sounds more like a lecture than a talk,” Varen pointed out not turning from the altar in her aravel or raising her head to look at him. “Are you sure you want to part this way, Lassathim?”

“Don’t you dare,” he grumbled, stalking behind her to crawl into the hammock hanging at the front of the aravel. “Don’t you start that,” he said.

“You’re starting it-”

“I am not,” Lassathim interrupted.

“You are too.”

“I am not,” he growled, putting extra emphasis on every word, which rather defeated the purpose of emphasis, Varen thought.

She sighed. “What do you want?”

Lassathim wore an expression that was hard to characterize as anything other than outrage. He shook his head, mouth wagging like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find words strong enough. Instead his hands rose up into what could be said was a shrug, but carried a tone rife with colorful curses and sarcastic insults.

Saving him from his moment of utter shock, was another voice from the entrance of the aravel. Younger, brighter and far more cheerful than his surly counterpart. “You’re really going south?”

“Blaen mentioned as much,” a second almost identical voice stated. “Lassathim wasn’t listening.”

“He never listens,” the twin pointed out.

“Very true,” replied their sibling. The two of them were almost entirely indistinguishable from the other. Only their closest friends and family could tell them apart. Everyone else praised the Creators when one chose the vallaslin of June and the other Sylaise.

“I hate it when you do that,” Lassathim said.

“What?” the pair echoed in unison.

“That shit, it’s creepy.”

The twins smiled back at their older brother as they climbed into Varen’s aravel and sat upon pillows on the floor.

“There’s not enough room in here for you,” Varen protested. She was ignored.

“How far south?” the first asked.

“Farther than Orzammar?” said the second.

“Yes,” Varen sighed. “Almost to the Wilds.”

Their eyes lit up, “That is where Asha’bell-”

“Don’t,” Lassathim stated, “Start with that, again. Hear me?” He was ignored. “Rennan?”

He sighed. “Yes.”

“Sulann?”

“Fine.”

“Varen has real things to worry about. Important things,” he glanced at his younger sister, sitting with her arms wrapped around her legs, and her chin on her knees.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” she said softly.

“As long as you come back,” Lassathim said, “that’s all that matters.”

“Or we’ll all hunt you down and drag you back,” a fourth voice giggled. They were echoed by a chorus of small giggles and affirmations; three small children swarmed around their small frame. The youngest of them all, Hamin hadn’t even their vallaslin yet.

“Can we come in?” the eldest of the children asked, already crawling her way inside.

Varen nodded. How could she possibly refuse? The First opened her arms up to the three of them and almost instantly she was covered in a mass of small bodies and legs, all clinging for dear life and all saying how much they didn’t want her to go.

“Leave Amae Varen alone,” Lassathim called, beckoning his children to him. The littlest refused, and stayed firmly planted in Varen’s crossed legs. The rest obeyed and swarmed their father. Through the clinging arm of the eldest, he informed Varen, “Vunalla will want to send you off with vittles, she’ll be very angry if you don’t say goodbye.”

“I will,” Varen assured him. Out of everyone in their clan, Lassathim’s bond-mate was not someone she wanted to make angry, First to the Keeper or not.

“Who are you taking with you,” Sulann inquired.

“Nethras and Ralath. We’re leaving in the morning,” Varen answered. The twins nodded knowingly. All but one of the siblings in the family had become hunters – they were damned good at it. Nethras and Ralath’s capabilities were well known, and they were trusted. Out of all the hunters in the clan, Varen’s brothers trusted them the most. Their Keeper chose well.

“Is Blaen not going with you?” Hamin asked, inching toward to snuggle their sister along with their youngest niece.

“I do not believe so. I do not know that they could make the journey even if they wanted to.”

“Why not?” piped up the tiny voice of Lasla in her lap.

“She is too old,” Varen explained.

“Like Papae?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Hey--!”

“You will be careful, won’t you?” Sulann asked, “Blaen has not had very courteous things to say of the south.” It was an understatement; he did not want to frighten the children too badly. Blaen had shared many stories with him; stories of Kirkwall and Fereldan. He wished he had shared more with Varen before now.

“I know,” Varen assured him patiently. “I will be fine.”

Supper passed like a dream. The children would only remember a special feast – and a number of ancient stories that would fuel their playscape for weeks to come. For the three spies, it was more somber. It was no funeral service, no more than it was a wedding feast. Merely it was the joining of families to wish luck and a safe return from a journey that would likely take the better part of a year.

Varen spent it surrounded by her siblings while Lassathim's eldest Tisha bothered Blaen for stories and Hamin eyed Nethras from behind Varen’s shoulder. All throughout dinner, Blaen shot knowing looks at Varen; silent beckons to come talk to her. A warning that she’d hunt Varen down if the First remained stubborn. Varen tried to ignore the old woman, casting off the mage’s intentse stare to focus on Hamin practically clining to her skirts like a child.

“You know,” Varen drawled, “nothing’s ever going to happen if you don’t talk to him.”

Hamin gasped and tried to look normal. They failed quite miserably and cast a nervous glance at Nethras across the camp’s bonfire. He was blissfully ignorant of their pining.

“I can’t,” Hamin mumbled bashfully.

“Why not,” their older sister inquired with a wry grin.

“Cause I’m not as pretty as you, and-“ Hamin began with a plaintive whine.

They were abruptly cut off by Vunalla, who was peering over at Hamil with squinted eyes and raised eyebrows. “That’s nonsense,” she commented curtly. “You look like your father, and he had half the clan chasing him down.”

“Which makes you twice as pretty as Varen,” Lassathim piped up, not even looking up from the meal he had otherwise been engrossed in. “And even _she_ got herself a partner.” Varen tossed a sliver of bark at him in retaliation.

“That all you got?” He teased, as Varen tossed her hair and turned back to her younger sibling.

“If you don’t talk to him, then I will,” she threatened.

“Noooo!” Hamin whispered urgently, gently shaking their sister. “Don’t you dare!”

Varen waved them away. She couldn’t help but grin devilishly and shrug. Without a verbal affirmation, Hamin was left to wring their hands with worry. They cast a nervous glance at their family, hoping at least one would intercede on their behalf. When nothing occurred, they whimpered emphatically.

Vunalla sighed heavily. “You’re both cruel,” she chastised. Neither Lassathim or Varen looked particularly ashamed of their crimes. Patiently, Vunalla offered a new option: “It’s a very long journey they’re embarking on. Perhaps he would appreciate new bowstrings. Just in case.”

Hamin stared at Vunalla with an empty expression. Then as the ramifications set in the wide, wicked grin all the siblings inherited from their mother, spread acrosstheir face. Without further word, Hamin leapt to their feet and darted off to the aravel they shared with their father.

Triumphant, Vunalla preened like a peacock. “Sometimes, the best route is not the direct one,” she stated with a haughty toss of her head.

Lassathim grunted. Then after a moment’s thought, he slowly turned to face his life partner. “Did you do that?”

“Of course,” Vunalla scoffed. “You think all that food was charity?”

“You fed everyone,” Lassathim replied slowly. He stared off into the dirt, as if trying to summon memories from the soil.

“No, I didn’t,” Vunalla replied, aghast that her partner was only just now discovering the ploy she’d used to get in his good graces. They’d been partnered for over eleven years… surely he wasn’t _that_ dense. Yet, when he turned his wide eyes back up to her, she realized that no, he really was. His entire worldview was changed. She couldn’t help but laugh. “Not _everyone_ can be like Varen, waltzing up and claiming people,” she teased.

“I didn’t claim Lindel,” Varen protested lamely. It had been very close. Vunalla’s judgemental stare silenced further protests. She _had_ been rather foreward. It had been only a few months between the time she’d declared her intentions and he moved into her aravel. Deshanna had characterized her as a druffalo on stampede.

It was about this time that Hamin zoomed back into view. The trio watched, holding their breath as their youngest sibling marched over to Nethras with little wooden legs. They straightened their garb just before, ensuring that they were giving off the best of impression, squared their shoulders and then caught Nethras’ attention. Even from a distance they could see Hamin stumble and stutter over their sentences as they haltingly extended their gift to the young hunter.

Nethras seemed confused at first. His friend watched with sly grins and side-long looks as he accepted the bowstrings, neatly tied with colored string, and thanked Hamin. Their knowing grins quickly turned to sighs and rolled eyes. Neither Hamin or Nethras noticed. Hamin was blushing. Nethras utterly oblivious. After a long, awkward pause, Hamin excused themselves and shuffled off, covering their face with embarrassment. Nethras watched, dumbly as they disappeared from sight.

The trio of siblings watching exchanged pained looks. One day this would go differently. Perhaps, but it was not this day. In the end, Lassathim shrugged and focused on the remnants of his meal, leaving the two women to ponder how to remedy the situation if there was remedy at all.

Yet, before their eyes, a curious new development occurred. Once Hamin had left, Nethras’ friends began to nudge and giggle at him. Clueless, he glanced back and forth between the lot of them, trying to determine what the root of their teasing was. Soon the dumb look that had been plastered to his face was wiped clear and he sat straight. A wide-eyed, excited grin split his face.

Then, with the full understanding of what had just transpired, he turned to the trio on the opposiste side of the bonfire and began to gesticulate wildly. Lassathim quickly gave up the game of charades, muttering about how he was never any good at it and yelled across the fire: “What?!”

Nethras’ friends dissolved into laughter as Nethras’ immediately cowered from the gruff, imposing hunter. Which quickly transformed into a back and forth motion of _come here,_ and Nethras stalwartly refusing, while simultaneously shaking his head madly with a nervous grin.

Eventually, Nethras’ companions began to shove him in the direction that Hamin had left while Vunalla and Varen urged him on with their hands and Lassathim shouted commands – which the ladies silenced at every oppurtunity so as to avoid embarrassing the love-struck puppies. Shuffling off with as much confidence that Hamin had originally exuded, Nethras finally obeyed and disappeared into the shadows to pursue them. His companions raised their cups at his exit, grinning and giggling to themselves over the whole affair.

Although Varen had determined to retire to her aravel early in the night so as to be well-rested in the morning, sleep was ever running from her. Anxiety kept her restless mind wandering, and so she stayed by the fires until the last of her clanmates disappeared into their homes. The clan’s Second kept her the longest, ever searching for reassurance that they – he – would be alright without her. With Varen gone, he was acting First, and felt woefully underprepared.

“Nonsense,” Varen assured him, as they piled ashes around the coals of the fire. Maserion had not yet mastered the art of banking a fire without getting soot and ash all over himself. He squat across from her looking rather like a skinny raccoon in the moonlight. “You managed well enough with the Keeper and I both gone today. And you have been apprenticed far longer than I was at your age. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Maserion smiled faintly. Varen rarely gave praise flippantly, and always reacted quite strongly when you refused what she did give. He nodded, rubbing his tired eyes with his fist, which only furthered the amount of soot caking his dark skin.

“Now, go to bed before you fall asleep in the coals,” Varen chastised, shooing the young elf off to his family’s aravel. He complied, but not before sticking his tongue out at her.

With no further distractions, Varen made her way reluctantly back to her aravel. Before she even made it halfway, she was interrupted. Unfortunately, it was not a pleasant distraction. Blaen stood directly in her path, lying in ambush for the chance to speak with her. What was worse – Blaen _saw_ her. Which means there would be no avoiding her.

The woman smiled genially at the First, leaning heavily on the circle staff she still carried. Though she has been with the clan nearly two months, she had yet to convert, or adopt more Dalish customs. Some elves that came to them needed a warming up period – that was acceptable. But Blaen held steadfast to her beliefs, and gave no indication that she would contribute to their way of life. Varen had repeatedly cautioned Deshanna against taking in the freeloader, as Varen saw it, and was consistently dismissed. Her First wondered how much of that refusal was built on Deshanna’s naïve hopes that peace could be brokered between shemlen and elf and how much was based on her growing affection for the Circle Mage.

Despite her personal opinions, Varen had a duty to her clan to be thoughtful, patient and diplomatic. So, ignoring the intense desire to throw the woman to the wolves, Varen smiled and dipped her head in greeting.

“Ser Varen,” Blaen responded in kind.

 _Fenedh_ —Varen smiled once more, but could not summon enough true feeling to make her eyes shine. “Blaen, you do not need to use shemlen honorifics with me. I may be First to the Keeper, but were are equals here.”

Blaen’s smile was crooked. “Aye, but think it a mark of my utmost respect for you, rather than a human title.” Before Varen could provide a rebuttal, she hooked Varen around the arm and gently tugged her away. “Walk with an old woman. I want to speak with you about where you are going,” Blaen began, with all the sageness of the clan’s storyteller.

“I know where-“

“Hush, child,” the mage interrupted, patting Varen’s arm gently and ignoring how the young woman bristled and tensed. Varen cursed her silently. “You are familiar with Mahariel’s story? The place you are going is the location of the ashes she used to cure Arl Eamon.” Blaen paused for effect, any time the Warden was mentioned always caused a ripple of surprise and delight wash over the listener. Although Varen tried to hide it, she too felt this same emotion: _Oh, that Haven._ “Religious zealotry aside,” Blaen continued, with a wry grin, “it will be teeming with Templars and Mages and Chantry, all of them afraid of the other and of everything else.”

“I know that,” Varen insisted.

“Knowledge and understanding are different,” Blaen countered. The old woman shook her head, forgoing a continued debate. Varen was too proud to listen. She would learn in time. Any attempt to teach her now was a waste of breath, and Blaen was too old to do that.

“Beware the mages,” she said, ganerering a surprised and curious side-long glance from Varen. “Beware the Templars, and beware the Chantry: All folk are cunning, selfish and self-serving. I learned that in the Circle. The Fade is but a reflection of our souls – whatever danger spirits or the Fade poses, it learned from us.”

Blaen stopped their endless stroll – a slow circle around camp. Back in front of the aravel she stole Varen from, the old mage pulled Varen to her and took both her hands in her own. She couldn’t read Varen’s blank expression, thought she searched the elf’s eyes for any spark of recognition.

“Trust no one,” Blaen continued, squeezing her hands tightly for emphasis. “Whatever happens, do not let them take your blood.”

“Why? Varen asked, her face twisting in confusion. “The shemlen condemn blood magic, what purpose would they have for it?”

“They condemn it, so long as it does no benefit them,” Blaen hissed. “If they have your blood, they may attempt to create a phylactery. All they need is a drop and then they can find you anywhere.”

“Then I won’t be caught,” Varen replied matter-of-factly. Blaen did not trust so simple a plan. Still she nodded.

“If they do –“ Blaen rose a finger, cutting off Varen’s arrogant reply before it even left her lips, “ _If_ they do: destroy it. There is no other option.” Blaen watched Varen take in this information, then finally nod her understanding of the instruction. Once that was settled, Blaen released her grip of the First and pat her on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself, child. And get some sleep, or you will have Maserion’s silly raccoon eyes. Ones that won’t wash off.” With that, the old woman turned and hobbled to the aravel that she “temporarily” shared with Deshanna. She didn’t even give Varen a chance to reply.

Varen was left stranded in the darkness, not entirely sure what to make of it all. She clutched herself against the chilly night air and soundlessly returned to her aravel for the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Falos: Hunter on the the clan's night watch. Mentor to Hanan. Mythal's Vallaslin.  
> Hanan: Falos' partner and apprentice. Dirthamen's Vallaslin.  
> Blaen: Mage from Kirkwall who has become a part of Lavellan's clan.  
> Maserion: Second to Clan Lavellan. Mythal's Vallaslin  
> Lassathim: The eldest of Varen's siblings. First Born. Andruil's Vallaslin.  
> Vunalla: Lassathim's wife. Mythal's Vallaslin.  
> Three daughters, including Lasla who is the youngest and Tisha the oldest.  
> Rennan: Varen's younger brothers. Twin to Sulann. June's Vallaslin.  
> Sulann: Twin to Rennan. Sylaise's Vallaslin.  
> Hamin: Youngest of the siblings.  
> Mentioned: Lindel; deceased. Varen's bond-mate.  
> Nethras: A hunter in the company of Varen. Ralath's apprentice. Elgar'nan's Vallaslin.  
> Ralath: A hunter in the company of Varen. Falon'din's Vallaslin.  
> 


	4. The Siren's Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edited 3/17/19:   
> Notes: I expanded like, woah. The Wicked Grace bet felt terribly cliche and ill-conceived to me. So I changed it. 
> 
> Who else is best to ferry a few creeping Dalish across the Waking Sea but a captain *intimately* familiar with the Dalish?

Varen could count how many hours of sleep she got on a single hand. Cold water washed whaterver the night had done to her face, but her body and mind protested such abuse. She was getting too old to lose so much sleep.

Like a shambling corpse, Varen trudged out to find tea at the nearest cookfire. Sylaise bless her, hopefully _someone_ was awake already and she didn’t have to make it herself. As she stepped out of her aravel she saw her prayers answered.

“Good morning, dearest sister,” Sulann greeted her, holding a cup of hot tea out to her as she approached. “Tell me you love me,” he grinned.

“I love you,” Varen mumbled as she drew the cup close and clutched it like a lifeline.

“You look like shit,” he then commented.

“Thanks, jerk.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied cheerily. “Make sure to drink water on the way,” he added. After giving her another once over, he continued with a slow shake of his head. “A _lot_ of water.”

“Rennan asleep,” Varen growled, smoothing her hair and wondering just how bad the circles under her eyes actually were.

Sulann’s smile was devious. “Probably.”

His sister immediately crouched nest to him, more awake than a song bird at noon. “You don’t know?” she inquired with a whisper, as if there were others who were listening in at the crack of dawn. The twins had been nearly inseparable since birth. They _still_ lived together. For Sulann to not know the precise location of his brother… well, that would only mean one thing.

“Oh,” the twin smiled broadly, “Let me just say this: I’ll make sure they wait for you to get back before they have any sort of bonding ceremony.”

“Good, cause if you do it while I’m away, I’ll kill both of you,” Varen replied clapping him on the back.

By the time Rennan appeared at the cookfire, the rest of the family had awoken, finished half a mug of tea and were grinning ear to ear like cats with cream. Rennan had just given them _fodder._

“Well, hey there,” Lassathim was the first to start throwing jabs. “How was your evening? You have a good night?”

“Rennan and Pel sitting in a tree,” Hamin began quietly over their tea, prim and proper as could be.

Rennan weathered the quips with grace. At least, as much grace as was allowed while giving your twin the stink eye. “Traitor,” he grumbled. Sulann bat his eyes.

“Oh no, no, no,” Varen corrected him giggling. “You made this bed.”

“Are you twelve?” Rennan sighed.

“ _Thirteen_ , thank you,” Varen replied flipping her hair over her shoulder with her hand.

The morning had grown late. While her siblings continued to poke and prod each other, Varen had little choice but to excuse herself. Across camp, she could see Ralath and Nethras begin saddling their harts. It would be poor form to let them saddle her hart for her. Besides, Ralath was quick to grow impatient, even if it was hard to read her.

At the moment she was working methodically through her duties with the patience of trees. Not even Nethras’ off-tune humming affected her sprits. Whatever gaff had occurred between him and Hamin, it had been rightly smoothed over.

“Good morning,” Ralath greeted her.

Nethras waved enthusiastically from behind his hart’s flanks. “We pulled Da'egara from the herd for you. Haven’t started saddling him yet. Sorry.”

“No apologies necessary,” Varen replied.

“Keeper said there was just some final preparation and we would be off,” Ralath huffed. “We’re late. It’s well past dawn.”

Varen shared a smile with the easy-going Nethras. Neither said a word. 

What the Keeper had planned was a grand send off. The trio left to the chorus of songs andsmall gifts of honeycakes as if they were a wedding party being sent off to another clan. Deshanna called them “Ambassadors of the People.” Varen didn’t mention that there would be no ambassadors between them. They were spies, plain and simple. It was a technical argument that nearly drew the attention of the entire clan and sent Maserion into a nervous fit. Before she left, the words she shared with Deshanna were less than amiable.

“Varen, whatever grevience the Dalish had with humans it is passed time we let that go, da’len,” Deshanna said wearily leaning on her staff. Varen had pulled her away from breakfast – and therefore Blaen. She couldn’t help but glare at the old woman over Deshanna’s shoulder. Her ire did not go unnoticed. “And don’t you be blaming Blaen for any of this. I am Keeper, this is my decision.”

“Hahren,” Varen said with gritted teeth, “You honestly think the shemlen will ever treat us fairly? You’re too naïve.”

“Something has got to change, da’len. It starts with us. We keep ourselves too far from them. They do not know us. If they do, they will see,” Deshanna replied resolutely.

“And what do the City Elves think of that plan, hm?” Varen rebutted, jabbing a slender finger out toward two elves of middle age enjoying their breakfast across camp. It was the first inkling from the clan that something between the First and the Keeper was amiss. The two elves in question had fled from Starkhaven nearly a decade ago with horrible stories to tell of city life. They’d never gone back.

“Two of many that choose to stay in the city,” Deshanna countered. “That is not proof of humanity’s entire failing.”

Varen threw her hands up in frustration, and spun in a circle, half wishing she could walk away from the argument. Unfortunately, she was the one that started it. “Mahariel is not the bridge for our people,” she grumbled, glaring back at Deshanna.

“The Queen of Fereldan gave the Dalish land. They do not live in fear anymore. They have a home.”

“On the contrary,” Varen sniped, “they are conveniently located on open ground on which massacres are easily conducted.”

“It’s been ten years, da’len. Nothing has happened,” Deshanna explained. “Times are changing. People are changing.”

“People don’t change,” Varen hissed. “They never do. Don’t be stupid.”

“Da’len,” Deshanna cautioned.

Varen ignored it. “Don’t “ _da’len_ ” me,” she hissed. When she next opened her mouth to speak, Deshanna cut her off.

“Enough of your warmongering!” The Keeper rarely raised her voice. Every elf in hearing distance turned to look. Varen stood woodenly, staring back at her with white knuckled fists at her sides. Her face burned with fury and embarrassment. Deshanna allowed the silence to grow heavy before she finally ended the argument. “I am Keeper. I will decide what’s best for this clan and our people. Now go.”

Varen swallowed what felt like a lump of lead and swiveled on her heel to rejoin the waiting Ralath and Nethras. But before she left, she turned once more to hiss at Deshanna, “Fen’Harel guides you, Keeper. I pray he doesn’t end you.”

Varen’s hart immediately picked up on the swirling vortex of fury within her. He was gentle by nature, but easily upset. Da'egara stood still only so long as the elf needed to swing into he saddle before nervous prancing began. Unfortunately, this also made the tying of ribbons to his bridle rather difficult. Rennan was quick to point out the ill tiding during his final goodbye.

“Well, that makes me feel better,” Varen scolded him.

“I do not wish any harm upon you, just… be careful,” he whispered with trembling hands and moist eyes.

Lassathim was the last to say goodbye. “Mythal keep your and may Andruil make your paths straight,” he said with characteristic formality. In every event such as this, he recited his words by rote. Vunalla commented she made promises to a sylvan not a man. Men were less wooden. Yet, before he turned away, he leaned in to ask what he believed to be a very important question. “Why are we tying ribbons?”

Varen merely smiled back. _Only the Creators fucking knew,_ she thought uncharitably. Casting one long look at her clan, Varen turned her hart away from her home and set off east toward the Amaranthine Coast.

 

“So… exactly _how_ long are we going to be gone?” Nethras asked, no more than ten minutes on the road.

Ralath was taking in the quiet of the forest, watching the birds flit from branch to branch singing love songs to each other and almost aggressively pretending she wasn’t listening to her young mentee. Varen looked over her shoulder at the young hunter, bright eyed and oblivious to the ridiculousness of the question he’d just asked. Or, perhaps he just didn’t care.

“What? Miss your sweetheart already?” Varen drawled.

Nethras’ face turned a bright shade of pink. “No,” he replied with little conviction. “Maybe,” he sniffed, cracking a bashful smile. Nethras had never been one to shy away from emotions or romance. As a young boy, he had often serenaded his young crushes. Usually the hearth keepers charged with watching the little ones during the day. If he felt something, everyone knew.

Behind him, Ralath had cracked the smallest of smiles. Varen was initially skeptical of Deshanna’s decision to pair the two up. Two people could not be more opposite. Yet they made their partnership work, covering for each others’ weaknesses and strengthing what they were good at. As mentor taught apprentice, so too did apprentice teach mentor. Rather than falling into argument and conflict, for the first time, Ralath smiled on a regular basis.

“Ah, young love,” Ralath teased.

“Or puppy love,” Varen assessed, turning back around to face the road ahead of them. “One of many.”

Nethras cleared his throat. “Nothing wrong with that,” he half muttered. “Still enough to miss.”

“True,” Ralath agreed stoutly. “Don’t let the cynic crush your heart, da’len.”

Her support buoyed Nethras significantly. He sat straighter on his hart, fixing a resolute stare on Varen’s back. “Thank you, Ralath,” he said, cocky from ‘wining’ an argument against the Keeper’s First.

Although she wasn’t laughing, her good humor colored her words. “Three days to the coast,” she finally answered, gesturing vaguely in their directed route. “East, south-east ish.”

“Not Wycome?” Ralath inquired.

“No. We don’t want the shems knowing we’re going anywhere abroad. Avoid suspicions. Besides, our chartered ship requested to pick us up outside the city limits.”

Ralath’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like that,” she griped.

“Indeed,” Varen agreed. “But, as the Keeper assured me, they’re quick and quiet.”

“I like that even less,” Ralath interjected.

“They’ll take us to the Storm Coast in Fereldan, from there we go south.”

Nethras looked uneasy. “So…. How many weeks?”

“More like months,” Varen corrected him easily. She glanced over her shoulder at him, arching a curious brow at such a question. “Where did you _think_ we were going?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, hoping to avoid interrogation. He fidgeted in his saddle when neither woman dropped it. “Starkhaven?” he finally admitted.

Ralath chuckled. “Wrong Haven, da’len,” she said, snickering to herself.

“Look I don’t know _human_ geography!” Nethras retorted with a plaintive whine. She twisted in his seat to face Ralath and argue face to face, which only served to confuse his poor heart, as the reigns slapped against either side of her neck. Eventually, after weaving back and forth on the game trail, she decided to ignore all instruction and instead much on fallen nuts.

This, naturally, caused Ralath’s hart to do the same. “Keep going!” Ralath hissed, as she tried to steer her hart away from the distraction. Out of all of them, hers was the most onery and prone to losing focus. When one fell, she would follow – and she would never get back up after.

“I’m sorry!” Nethras responded, coaxing his hart to catch back up with Varen who had throughout the small argument never strayed or tarried. “If we’re going south, why don’t we just go to Kirkwall?” he asked.

“Do _you_ want to go to Kirkwall?” Varen replied coolly.

Nethras whined softly, scrunching his face up like he’d smelled something foul.

“Thought so.”

“How bad do you think the snow will be?” Ralath inquired.

Varen hadn’t thought about it. She grimaced. They would be up in the mountains, hopefully she would not need snow shoes… she couldn’t fancy seeing herself walking well in them. Only time would tell. In the meantime, they had to worry about the sea.

When they reached the coast three days later, the trio of elves immediately realized why their chartered ship requested to be seen outside Wycome. It was anchored as close to the shore as it could be in order to protect itelf from the autumn storms off the Amaranthine. At such a distance they could count thirty gun ports on the port side alone, which meant there were sixty in total. Pair that with a sleek, yet deep hull and tall masts it was apparent this was no trader vessel. The clipper was built for war. On top of it all, not a single flag bore any heraldic device.

Deshanna had chartered a crew of _pirates._ The three elves stood at the forests’ edge, a hundred paces away from the waves and a trio of weathered crewmen waiting for them and stared. When they returned, Varen would certainly give Deshanna what-for, and if she ever met Merrill, would kill her. That is, if they lived through this themselves.

Nethras and Ralath both turned to stare at Varen, waiting for the command to continue or retreat back home. They were hoping for the latter by the skeptical look on their faces. Unfortunately, their prayers would not be answered that day. With a sigh, Varen turned to relieve her hart of it’s burden, gifts, letters and various supplies. Her companions had no choice but to follow suit.

The three they met on the shore certainly looked the part of pirate. Each one had hard lines and weathered faces, with patched clothes and soft-soled leather shoes that were white with salt. Their eyes were hard with having seen too much in too little time yet, strangely mirthful. After all, they chose this life for themselves. The two men watched, lounging languidly on the sand as the elves approached, one chewing tobacco and the other smoking it. The woman with them was clearly their superior, simply by the state of her clothing and the way she carried herself.

Only the woman stood when they arrived. Varen rose a hand to greet her. “Greetings, I suspect you’re the one Merrill calls ‘friend?’”

All Varen could see of her face was her grin. The rest of her face was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat with a swath of feathers pinned to the brim that cascaded behind her like a small waterfall. “I am,” the woman drawled, seeming to laugh at some unsaid joke. “Admiral Isabela,” she continued, nodding her head to the elves.

In turn the trio nodded back. Nethras and Ralath stood slightly behind Varen eyeing the two crewmen who seemed to care about them as much as they did insects.

Once the pleasantries had been dealt with, the harts were instructed to return home and the six people disembarked on a little dingy for the clipper. Within the hour, the elves had been directed to their sleeping station aboard the ship - three hammocks at the back of the crews’ quarters and a single wooden trunk bolted to the floor – and they had set sail. Afterwards they were left to their own devices.

The elf who directed them, a man by the name of Brand and who had seen better days perhaps two decades ago, had by no means given them free reign of the ship. He all but gave a list of where to go and where not to go, and “Don’t bother anyone. Supper is marked by the bell. Late and you won’t eat.”

For the better part of three days the raiders left them alone. They went about their work trying not to make it obvious they were ignoring their charges. Nethras didn’t understand their aloofness – which Ralath tacitly informed him that “It was for the better.” Shortly there-after we bent back over the railing to release the churning contents of his stomach and Ralath went back to rubbing his back and holding his hair, whichever was most important at that moment.

The reason behind this aloofness was not hard to discern. All it took was some creeping about in the hall of the ship for a half hour. There hidden around the corner of the galley, Varen overheard the nervous gossip of the cook to the first-mate.

“What if they murder us in our sleep?”

“Then after applauding their skill,” Brand drawled, “I’d wonder how they’d go about manning a frigate on their own.”

“Brand, I’m serious!” the cook insisted. “They’re _Dalish!_ They sacrifice babies to their gods and-“

“Well, then it’s a good thing we don’t have any babies on board,” Brand countered, rummaging in the cupboard for something Varen couldn’t see.

“Stop that,” the cook snapped, wacking Brand’s knuckles with a wooden spoon. “Brand-“

“Lucia," if you have issue with our passangers, I suggest you take it up with the Captain,” Brand grumbled, rubbing his knuckles. The cook fell silent on his hard gaze, and following her half-hearted whimper, Brand leaned in with an altogether malevolent gleam in his eyes. “No…”

“N.. no,” the cook echoed softly.

“Then finish your duties, and quite your bellyaching.”

With a defeated, yet resentful snort, Lucia did as she was told. Once her back was turned, Brand snatched the pickles from the shelf and stalked out.

Varen ducked behind a barrel of rum as his footsteps neared her, narrowing escaping being seen. What a shame that such silly superstitions abounded among shem and elf alike, Varen thought.

Everywhere on the ship the echoes of that conversation followed her steps, fading once she was within view of the speakers. Eyes watched their every move. Strange indeed given she was surrounded by criminals. Oh, how deep their religious superstitions went! She shuddered to think what they would do if they found out she as also an apostate. Probably toss her overboard…

Yet, all her snooping and subtle eavesdropping could not answer one burning question: How, by Fen’Harel’s mangey tail, had Merrill come to be acquainted with a ship full of pirates? What in the Void did she _do_ when she left Clan Sabrae?

After voicing her curiosity in a butchered mixture of Elvish and the King’s tongue in order to preserve _some_ secrecy, Ralath heaved a heavy sigh. It was the _third_ such time, Varen had made that same remark in three days time. Quite frankly the old woman was tired of the repetition, not to mention the incessant negativity wafting off Varen like stink from manure in the summer. It was downright exhausting.

“Just ask the Captain,” Ralath groaned, rolling her eyes.

“What? No. _Why?”_ Varen barked, turning her noise up at the very idea.

“Well, then stew in ignorance but please - and I mean this with as much love and respect as possible - shut up,” Ralath all but pleaded. She adjusted herself to slowly extend her tired legs out in front of her so as to not wake the sleeping Nethras. He had been using her lap as a pillow for the last two hours and by the Creators, her legs were beginning to cramp something fierce.

Varen resorted to a very mature pout. For the next few minutes, they sat in utter silence. However, when Ralath did not express the reaction Varen desired, namely shame and contriteness, the First stood up abruptly and stalked out.

 _Fine,_ she thought to herself. _I’ll ask._

Once she stepped out onto the main deck, she found herself incapable of doing just that. The crew was scrambling around her with a sort of calm urgency. There was no immediate emergency, but if they slacked off there would be. Isabela was no where to be seen, though occasionally her voice drifted over the wind calling orders _somewhere_ on board. Brand was nearest, and also too busy to be bothered.

 _Oh, guess I won’t,_ Varen thought to herself, pleased the issue had been taken from her hands entirely. Yet, now she was stranded above deck. She couldn’t go down below where Ralath was; she was forced to amuse herself on deck. Trouble was, she had begun to suffer true boredom. Ralath had whittling, when she wasn’t nurturing poor Nethras, Varen had… elfroot. Which tended to get very old very quickly for someone who wasn’t terribly keen on doing nothing but watching clouds for days on end.

“Move or get below,” a stern voice commanded as one of the crewmen shoved past her, hoisting a coil of rope as large as he was over his shoulder.

Varen skittered out of the way, before ducking under the mast head and making a b-line for the prow of the ship. She’d already been told to “Stay in one place. Out of the way,” once already. She didn’t want to know what happened with strike three.

Duly chastised, she leaned against the railing, staring out at sea. To their left, far out on the horizon, great black stormclouds bubbled over the sea. The ocean spray had become icy cold, even the air itself seemed to bite. Varen eyed the dark streaks of mist streaking down from the clouds to the sea so dark that it looked like the night had reached that part of the earth already. If that storm came anywhere near them, they’d be in for a wild ride. Judging from the flurry of activity behind her – it was unavoidable.

“Hey,” a hard voice called out from just behind her, loud enough to make her jump. “No more elfroot, hear me?”

“What?” Varen turned, staring dumbly up into the hollow-eyed Brand.

“Save it for port,” Brand insisted. “The sea is dangerous. While you’re on this ship you’ll be held to standard. Lose your wits and you’ll be the first overboard,” he clarified.

Without argument, Varen upturned the ash from her pipe overboard. “Understood.”

Pleased she took the directive so readily, Brand stabbed one gnarled finger in the direction of the oncoming storm. “You’ll also want to be below deck when that thing hits.”

“Is it really as dangerous as they say?” Varen asked, stowing her pipe in an inside pocket of her robes.

“On the Amaranthine?” Brand grinned wickedly. “Worse. Pray to your gods we don’t lose anyone tonight.” With that Brand turned on heel and stalked off, barking more orders to the crew. The last of the sails were being tied up and strongly secured. The last of the cannonry being strapped – anything that wasn’t already nailed down soon would be tied.

Down in the cabins, the flurry of motion hadn’t stopped. Nethras was now awake, blinking bleary eyes at everything around him. Ralath on high alert. She was double-checking the knots on his hammock, following the example of the crew.

“What’s going on?” Nethras asked as Varen weaved toward them. She snagged a bucket from the floor and tossed it at Nethras.

“You’re going to want that, Lethallan,” she said, gently tousing his hair. He half hummed half groaned, holding the bucket tight. They’d become fast friends over the past few days, he and his bucket.

“Everything is secure in the trunk or otherwise tied,” Ralath informed her, gesturing toward the crewmen. “How big is it?”

“Big,” Varen spread her arms wide to either side. Nethras almost cried. There’d be nothing left but bone by the time they’d hit Fereldan. Everything else would be a goopy mess in a bucket or the cabin floor.

“What are you doing,” Ralath asked, eyeing Varen warily as she untied the plain quarterstaff she’d brought with them. Since boarding it’d been tied up with their bows, hiding the fact she was a mage in plain sight.

“Preparing myself.”


	5. Stormbringer - A




	6. Amaranthine Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edit: 3/17/19  
> Notes: How did this end up the same number of chapters while expanding shit? I have no fucking clue, but now we get to talk to Isabela. 
> 
> Hey, she's a busy lady.  
> Also, you have no idea how hard it is _not_ to write a battle at sea. I've been watching too much Black Sails recently and the struggle is real.   
>  Fuckin love ships.

The storm hit hard and fast. One moment the air was crisp, cool with blue skies peeking through fluffy white clouds. The next, the wind was blowing so furiously the masts creaked and groaned under the pressure and the sky was dark with freezing rain. The sky flashed with lightening and the thunder shook your very bones.

The Dalish elves were glad to be below deck, where the force of crashing waves would not toss them overboard. Their greenness would see to that fate in a heartbeat. But the ship was taking on water; they stood in murky grey-green water halfway up their shins. Above them the frantic shouts of the crew were nearly drowned out by the howling wind. A few notable voices could be picked out, though their words were unintelligible. What mattered was the strained tone, the edges of panic. The ship dipped and rolled, tossing the elves against the wooden hull more than once.

Varen groaned, her cheek pressed against the clammy hardwood. The water in the cabin pushed against her thighs, tiny pinpricks of pain. Wait… the water shouldn’t be so high. Dizzy, Varen looked down at the floor of the ship. The water pooled at the sides and the corner. She and Ralath looked at each other with this startling revelation.

They were going to capsize.

Mercifully, the ship rocked back onto its keel and the water sloshed to the other side of the cabin. But that close-call was enough to kill any further reservations Varen might have had. The consequences could backfire – they could toss her overboard – but Varen could no longer hide the fact she was a mage when she could help.

Darting from the cabin, quarterstaff in hand, Varen launched herself onto the deck of the ship. A flurry of shouts commanded her to go back below, that it was too dangerous, and she ignored every one. Standing firm, gripping the stairs that lead to the quarterdeck, Varen tuned out the crewmen, the wind and the rain and opened herself up to the Fade.

Everything went still, quiet. Then, there at the corner of her mind she felt it. Static, a crackling, the bitter scent of ozone. Varen launched herself across the deck, chasing the feeling. Within a blink of an eye three hands held her robes as she climbed onto the rope netting that led up to the foremast. Staff high, Varen felt the arching static turn from its course.

Stunned crewmen watched as a snap of lightening veer unnaturally around the foremast and arc toward the tip of the mage’s staff. The force of it would have split the mast in two and left them dead in the water had the mage not been there.

Faintly, in the back of her mind, Varen felt the crew pull her safely down the rope ladders and onto the deck of the ship. Freezing water crashed over them, but several strong hands held her firm. Isabela was shouting from the wheel.

“Are you alright?” Brand’s voice pierced the fog. Varen grinned toothily back at him.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding her head. Locks of hair had fallen free from her braid and now stood on end, charged with enough static to make the elf look like a porcupine. A few crewmen stepped back, while Brand nervously nodded and let her go.

Soon enough, Varen was chasing yet another burst of lightening. This time from the prow of the ship. Her tactic was not merely to save the ship’s masts from exploding, but charge an otherwise dead piece of wood. She had no focus, but the wood felt hot in her hand. At the top, a feather she’d tied to it’s end whipped around erratically against the wind.

 _Perfect,_ Varen thought. Her breath and heartbeat stilled, and with eyes unfocused, she reached out to the ship and to the storm. _It’s just like guiding an aravel,_ she told herself.  _A very large aravel._ Before them, the wind whipped around an invisible barrier. The crew’s clothing ceased its incessant tugging, their hair, loose, tied or braided fell limp to their shoulders and the ship heaved a great sigh of relief.

Ralath burst from the main hatch almost immediately. Although she was no mage, she knew a Keeper’s magic as if it were her own. It ensured the very lives of the Dalish, and she was surprised to see Varen using it quite so casually. She weaved between stunned crewmen to join the First at the bow of the ship, holding her up against the railing. It was going to be a very long night.

She leaned into the First’s ear, eyeing the crew behind them warily. “If you kill yourself through overexertion, your family is going to kill me,” she hissed.

Varen merely giggled manically.

Ralath shook her head.  _Power-hungry, show-off_ , she thought to herself.

 

When Varen next awoke, she was snuggled up next to a drooling Nethras. With a grumble she smeared the drool from her shoulder and gently rolled him over to his other side. Gazing up at the beams, she evaluated the worth of crawling out of the hammock now or later.

On the one hand, it was terribly difficult to disembark from a hammock with someone next to you. The other, she  _really_ had to visit the privy. On top of that, she felt like she was in a fog, and every limb was wooden.

 _Don’t overexert yourself,_ Ralath had warned her.  _Oops,_ Varen mused. She really couldn’t help it. Not that that argument would ever fly with the elder hunter. Beside her Nethras snored and mumbled in his sleep. Time to get up.

Crawling out of the hammock told her two things. One: that she was getting older and her body was starting to hate her more and more. Two: that she worked  _far_ too hard last night. When she had her personal affairs in order, Varen crawled to the deck.

There, she found a clear night of stars above her and a quiet deck. She couldn’t see the quarterdeck from her position – but the main deck was almost barren. All that was there were two small figures at the bow of the ship keeping watch.

Silently, Varen dipped down below again. Time to try the mess hall, she figured. She must have slept the entire day. Sure enough, when she entered the mess hall, she found the majority of the crew there, eating and drinking by lantern light. Upon her arrival, a cheer rose up among them. Raised glasses toasted the Dalish elf newly adorned with the title of “Stormbringer.”

Varen halted in her tracks, unused to such treatment. Awkwardly, she smiled and made a sort of half-hearted “you’re welcome” shrug before weaving her way through the tables. A few shied away from her, others simply rose silent glasses or clapped her on the back as she passed. At least no one looked like they would throw her overboard. At the back of the mess, at a table all her own, Isabela rose her mug and beckoned Varen over.

“You don’t want to  _stay_ on this ship, perchance?” Isabela cooed with a cheeky grin as she poured Varen a mug of rum. “Could use someone of your talents.”

Varen snorted, “Thank you, but I have had my fill of the sea.”

“Pity. Pity more since you still have a week left,” Isabela teased as she now scooped heaps of food onto a pewter bowl. Varen hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she smelled the food. Simple affair, stew and stale bread but food regardless. “I’ve some oranges in my cabin later,” Isabela commented, “your mate has informed me that you should eat those.”

“Oh?” Varen asked. She’d no idea what oranges were, let alone knew that Ralath did.

In her best imitation of Ralath, Isabela put her hands on her hips and said, “Now, when she wakes up again she’d going to need some fruit. Something to replenish what she just lost saving your skins.” Isabela shot a glance over Varen’s shoulder, smirking at an unknown entity.

Varen turned to look. Ralath glared back at Isabela, back straight as she tried to see that Varen was being well cared for. The crewman she was speaking to at the time, gently swat her shoulder, drawing her attention back to their conversation.

“Good woman,” Isabela commented. “Hope you know that.”

“I do,” Varen replied trying not to talk through spoonfuls of stew like some mannerless heathen. “That’s why she’s here. And the other one, if you’ll believe it.”

“Eh,” Isabela replied with a shake of her hand, “Happens to the best. Some people never get over the sea-sickness.”

Varen nodded. Then through a mouthful of food asked, “Did you say a week left?”

Isabela nodded. “Been asleep for three days,” she commented slyly. “Thought you killed yourself, the way you collapsed. Only ever saw one mage do that – he was burning the wick at both ends if anyone did.”

Varen swallowed, face grave. She didn’t even remember that. All she had was a blur of wind and rain and electricity. Ralath was going to kill her. Well, best not to dwell on death now while she yet lived…

“So, may I ask how you know Merrill?”

“You may,” Isabela replied over a spoonful of stew.

“And?”

“I never said I’d answer,” Isabela grinned. Upon Varen’s exasperated sigh, she giggled and shrugged. “I met her in Kirkwall.”

“Kirkwall?” Varen asked, perking up. That… made sense, but if she was in Kirkwall in the company of Merrill then it was likely she was in the company of this Champion she kept hearing about.

“That’s what I said,” Isabela replied.

Varen reached for the mug of rum and paused. She had only infrequently drank any of it since boarding. She didn’t particularly care for it, to be truthful. But after inquiring about fresh water she was not so kindly told that water tended to spoil onboard, and most ports didn’t  _have_ drinkable water. Apparently, not everyone was as privileged as the Dalish for having springwater. As such, she’d taken to drinking very small amounts. Now, after the storm and nearly a week onboard, Varen was parched.

When she looked back at the ship’s captain, she discovered Isabela was watching her, waiting like a cat expecting a mouse to crawl out of a wall. To save her pride, Varen drank. And subsequently coughed and sputtered in response. Isabela was kind enough not to laugh  _too_ hard.

“Well done, kitten.”

“Can I ask you something related to Kirkwall?” Varen wheezed.

“You can try,” Isabela replied, “I can’t guarantee an answer.”

“Well, then first: How is Merrill doing anyway?” Varen asked. Perhaps she’d be more keen to answer about friends. Once she was liquored up and feeling friendly, perhaps Isabela would be more open.

For her part, Isabela seemed a little surprised. By her understanding, the Dalish did not seem terribly invested in her well-being. “Merrill is well,” she began slowly, “She’s adjusting to life in the Alienage. She is not alone, and she has family in her own way. Our own way,” Isabela tacitly commented.

Ah. Varen smiled a little of her own. Feeling a little warm from the rum she leaned forward, resting her chin on the palm of her hand. She bat dark lashes at the pirate and almost purred, “ _Our_ own way? Just how close have you two gotten?”

Isabela almost choked at the ridiculous display Varen was showcasing. She was even bobbing her eyebrows. Woman held her liquor about as bad as Merrill did! Still, she couldn’t help but return the sultry little grin Varen was flashing. “Close as can be.”

The elf giggled and drummed on the table with her fingers. “Good. Girl deserves a little happiness.” Varen suddenly assumed a sober air, though her devilish grin hadn’t faded. “If you hurt her, I’ll tie you to a tree and summon a sylvan.”

Isabela’s eyebrows rose. “Somehow, I don’t doubt a word of that,” she said. “And I’d like to see you try.” Wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s ever been done to her. After staring down hordes of qunari and spirits of the fade? Maker, she could conquer anything. Besides, threats from elves half your size were hard to take seriously.

“How well do you know her?” Isabela inquired, pushing an empty plate away from her. She’d toss it in the mess bucket on the way out. Varen had long since finished her first bowl and gone onto the second. Such ravenousness wasn’t usually tolerated – rations went quick on a ship. But Varen had earned it.

The elf shrugged. “Not very – her clan was and is, leagues away from mine. We met at the last Arlathvhen First to our Keepers… It was unavoidable to get to know each other. She was a sweet girl – and my kinsman. That’s all that matters.”

“I find it odd you’d threaten someone over a perfect stranger,” Isabela commented, watching Varen side-long.

 “She’s my kinsman,” Varen stated simply, “There’s no such thing as stranger.”

“I was under the impression that the Dalish did not approve of her choices,” Isabela pointed out, “Is she not exiled from the Dalish?”

Varen frowned and for a few moments was silent. Thinking, pondering. How to phrase this as respectfully as possible? Isabela waited patiently with eyes like a hawk.

“We respect the wishes of Clan Sabrae,” Varen finally said.

“But?”

“How familiar with the Hero of Fereldan are you?” Varen inquired, briefly changing the subject.

Isabela smelled a tangent and a segue. “A bit,” she replied. An understatement. The only reason why Mahariel was any good at rogueishness and dueling was because of her. Well, her and Zevran.

“Then you know why they fled to the Free Marches,” Varen pointed out. “Marethari was intelligent, but she was not wise in matters of spirits and magic.”

“Strange combination for a Keeper.”

“And a dangerous one,” Varen replied. “It is a Keeper’s place to remember. Merrill knew that, Marethari did not.”

“Marethari thought she was protecting her from the treachery of spirits,” Isabela pointed out.

“True, but a child does not grow strong unless they are first hurt. We learn to avoid or withstand skinned knees. You cannot protect a child from them without weakening them. Merrill is intelligent and competent. At least with magic,” Varen quietly amended. Merrill still would have been a terrible Keeper. She had no leadership skills or people skills. Perhaps that too was Marethari’s fault for not cultivating them in her.

Isabela watched the First in front of her for a quiet moment, then nodded and smiled to herself. As cold as the woman seemed to be on the outside, she wasn’t half bad in her estimations of people. Marethari seemed about as reliable as her own mother – and that was saying something.

Throughout their conversation, the mess hall had slowly emptied – men going back to their duties and their shifts. A ship still sailed at night, after all. Ralath still watched from the corner, surrounded by a slew of the crew teaching her dice. Hopefully the woman wouldn’t lose half their gear before disembarking.

Isabela turned from the wizened elf back to Varen who was wobbling to her feet. She couldn’t help but grin. “What’s the strongest stuff you drink at home?”

“Fermented halla milk. Not nearly as strong as this stuff,” Varen mumbled into the mug. She watched the amber liquid swirl back and forth.

“Sounds delicious… I should get you those oranges,” Isabela laughed, “and biscuits. C’mon.”

Varen nodded and followed after. She was quite proud that she kept her balance, she did  _not_ want Brand to catch her drunk – she shuddered to think what would happen if he did. Though… maybe Isabela’s company gave her a free pass?

Soon enough, Isabela had sat her swaying companion down on the bed and fetched her those oranges out of a small chest nailed to a table across the cabin. When she turned back around, Varen was bobbing up and down on the bed with a doofy grin on her face.

“I’ve never sat on a  _bed_ before,” the elf explained. “Aravels have hammocks. Beds are too big. Too bulky.”

Isabela hummed softly and tossed an orange Varen’s way. Varen fumbled with it in her tipsy stupor. “You spend your whole lives in hammocks?” Isabela asked, aghast.

“Yeah,” Varen replied, sniffing the orange. Didn’t smell like anything really. Or rather, the smell was very faint. She picked at the peel with one dirty fingernail.

Isabela frowned. She contemplated this new idea while Varen slowly picked the peel away with all the manual grace of an infant. “How do you have sex?” Isabela finally asked, finding the whole affair rather unpleasant sounding.

Varen stopped what she was doing and looked up at Isabela a little surprised. It appeared, she didn’t expect such a question would be asked. But neither did Varen blush. Instead, a wide wicked grin spread across her lips. “With a little time and devotion I could teach you sixty-nine different ways,” the elf giggled. “Do you mean to say none of your crew fuck?”

“I’m sure they do, but not on the ship.”

Varen’s head tilted to the side. Quite strange that folk would spend so much time together and not become intimate with each other.

Isabela understood the silent question and explained, “One, it’s bad for business. Two, we’ve got shit to do.”

“That’s a very sad life,” Varen commented quietly.

“Eh,” Isabela shrugged. “You just make port more often. You sound like a friend of mine,” she commented grinning.

“Sex is beautiful and sacred and there’s very little in life that can match it in importance on a number of levels,” Varen explained haughtily.

“Don’t I know it,” Isabela commented dryly. “Now you  _really_ sound like a friend of mine…”

Varen held up a handful of orange peels at Isabela, silently questioning where she should dispose of them. With equal care, Isabela waved her hand at a bucket against the door that Varen stumbled over to watch the peels tumble from her hands into the bucket. From there she enjoyed the juicy delicacy. And quite immediately fell in love.

“Mmmf!” Varen purred at Isabela, eyes wide with delight. The captain laughed and shook her head.

“I’ve created a monster?”

Varen nodded her head emphatically. “Where do you  _get_ these?” she mumbled through the half-eaten fruit.

“Rivain, mostly. Antivan ones are bigger, and juicier but they’re a pain to bargain with,” Isabela replied off-hand.

“Why?”

“They just  _are.”_ Isabela grumbled. “Unless it’s murder, in which case the bargains are quite quick and easy.”

“I beg your pardon?” Varen blurted.

Isabela laughed the question away. “Don’t worry about it. Here, sit.” Isabela tapped one of the wooden captain’s chairs. As Varen meandered over, Isabela rummaged in a little bureau.

“Why is everything nailed down?” Varen grumbled as she tried and failed to push the chair in. She was so  _far_ from the table! How did she get anything  _done?_

“You remember how the ship heaved in that storm. The last thing you want is a chest punching through the windows and sailing out into sea or being crushed by a table.”

“Fair point, I never thought of that,” Varen replied. “I hope no one found that out the hard way…”

“They probably did,” Isabela commented. She took a seat – the only other seat – across from Varen at the table and pulled out a well-loved deck of cards from a little velvet – lined case and began to shuffle. “Ever play Wicked Grace?”

“No,” Varen murmured warily, sucking the juice from her fingers.

“Well then, I’ll just have to teach you,” Isabela hummed as she dealt the cards.

One botched game later, Varen understood the rules. Another game and she discovered she was  _not_ good at it. Isabela gave her one more chance before she upped the stakes.

“Now we play for money,” the pirate smirked.

“Money?” Varen asked, biting her lip. They didn’t have much to bet… but she wasn’t about to turn down her host’s odd hospitality either. “Alright,” she acquiesced. Still, she wasn’t confident about it.

“So what are three Dalish crossing the sea for so secretly, hmm?” Isabela asked, as she dealt the next hand. Varen counted the cards absently as they were passed to her.

“What makes you think we’re keeping secrets?” Varen replied, collecting her cards. She knew at least not to give her hand away – her face as smooth as glass. No tells. Isabela still caught them – her foot jiggled under the table when she was thinking. “Hit me?” Varen said, attempting to keep her voice even.

“You sure?” Isabela grinned. Varen frowned. She’d failed again. The elf nodded.

“And, to answer: you’re using pirates,” Isabela pointed out. “And Merrill said you wanted to keep a low profile.”

Fenedhis, Merrill. Varen sucked at her teeth. “The world is changing. We need to know how,” Varen replied with a sigh.

“So you’re spies,” Isabela mused. “I didn’t think the Dalish paid any attention to shemlen politics.”

“On the contrary, the rumblings of shemlen cities often reach us. Fear, anger and corruption reach us in the form of hatred and persecution. Religious zealotry, etcetera…” Varen raised her hand. “We must be aware of what’s happening in order to protect ourselves.”

Isabela nodded slowly. Made sense. “I can only assume what world changing event you mean,” she replied idly. Folding her cards on the table, she waited for Varen to make her final move.

“Tell me about Kirkwall.”

“No,” Isabela replied. “Your hand?”

Varen did not comply. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to. Your hand,” Isabela repeated again, with as much interest as if it were the weather.

Varen frowned and revealed it. She was confident that she won;  it was a solid hand. But when Isabela took the pot, Varen’s spirit sunk. Isabela revealed her cards – barely beating her. Varen didn’t understand. She couldn’t have possibly have won, the probability alone was against her!

Varen sat back in her chair defeated. “Again,” she instructed to Isabela’s amused smile. “And this time, I bet information: You win, I tell you whatever secret you want – or subsequent favor in lieu of it. If I win, you tell me about Kirkwall.”

Isabela’s eyebrow arched inquisitively. “You’re better off reading Varric’s book. But alright, kitten.” Isabela shrugged. Varen was losing pretty badly. Still she dealt.

This time, Varen had a thought. An inkling. Pride always came before the fall. In the back of her mind, Deshanna’s council repeated over and over again.  _“Sometimes, Da’len, it is necessary to lie.”_ That was a hard lesson to learn; and while the lesson’s subject had been rather trivial now, at the time of her learning it shattered her. Varen held a grudge over that for nearly three years. Watching Isabela shuffle the cards for the fifth time, Varen thought she understood the woman across from her better than she had when boarding; better than she had after discovering she was a pirate.

 Once their hands had been dealt, Varen knew she would lose again – but this time it wasn’t for the reasons she had initially believed.

“You lose again, kitten.”

“Reveal your hand,” Varen said with a cheeky smile. She sat back in her chair, arms crossed as she sized Isabela up. The pirate laughed.

“I have.”

“Your other one,” Varen corrected.

Isabela stilled. After a moment’s intimidating silence, in which Varen began to wonder if she was terribly, terribly wrong, Isabela laughed and did as she was instructed. On the table between them were the cards for another winning hand. “Well done, kitten. The last person to figure that ploy out was Varric. The person before him was the Hero of Ferelden.”

Varen’s jaw dropped, much to the amusement of Isabela. “Is it the same one every time?” Varen stammered. Isabela quirked an eyebrow. “The same trick?”

“Of course not, kitten. That would make it too easy,” Isabela teased. “My only request? Not tonight.”

Varen nodded. “Fair and granted. I should return to my cabin… er.. place, anyway.” Varen slid from her seat, struggling against the table that wouldn’t move. She’d never get used to ships. Isabela chuckled as the elf pried her robes from the arms of the chair.

“Sleep well, kitten. Thank you for the game.”

Varen nodded. “We should play again – no cheating next time.” Isabela outright laughed. Fat chance for that, it seemed.

In the cold night air, Varen gazed up at the stars on the main deck and felt… oddly accomplished _._ Delusions of grandeur floated in Varen’s mind as she trudged back to the hammocks where she and the others slept.  _The last person to best me was the Hero of Fereldan._


	7. It Gets Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edited 3/17/19  
> 

The first item on Varen’s agenda the following morning (following a desperate need for a hot meal and the hair of the dog) was tracking down the boatswain to get Varric's book from him. She wasn’t entirely sure who this Varric person was, but Isabela had referenced him as a source of information. _Good_ information was another matter entirely. Yet, the most innocuous stories were often steeped in secret truths. Parsing them together was the true challenge. Varen felt confident in her abilities to determine gossip from reality. At the very least she could discover the general populace’s views on the whole wild and convoluted affair.

She discovered the boatswain sitting with Ralath as she taught him their methods of stitching aravel sails. Surprisingly enough, her bony hands were also the most skilled at stitching. The mastercraftsmen often bemoaned losing her talents to the hunters – but such was life.

Once Almeric saw Varen approaching, he grinned and waved a dry, cracked hand at her. “’Ey, Stormbringer! What cannay do for ya?”

“The Admiral informs me that you are in possession of a book called  _The Champion's Tale._ May I borrow it? Ah – just for the duration of our journey, of course.”

“Ah, sure sure!” Almeric said, slapping his thigh. “Just let me geddit from my bunk, eh?” Cursing his creaking joints, he led Varen down into the cabin with a jovial tendencies typical of old folk who had no more fucks left to give in life.

The book he gave her certainly only survived due to the string and leather binding. It was thick and crumpled from being waterlogged. The front cover was so caked in salt the title could hardly be read.

“Apologies for the look ov’er,” he said, with a wretched grin. “She’s well read that one. Ev’ry man on board has spread’er.” His pleased chortle withered into a cough under Varen’s blank gaze. He cleared his throat, and acted as if he hand’t just made a smutty joke. “She’s seen many a storm. Be careful on page forty-three, the ink began to run. Cap’n filled in the pieces missin’ but ‘er spellin ain’t too good.”

“Thank you,” Varen replied, holding the book reverently. If she’d handled it any other way then it might just fall to pieces on her. Varen had no knowledge of book-binding – it was the last thing she wanted.

Bidding farewell for now, the two parted ways; Almeric back to his duties, and Varen to read. There was no use attempting to socialize right now; most of the crew was otherwise occupied with the sailing of the ship. While Varen had saved their lives, she was still the creeping Dalish apostate skulking in the shadows listening. The boatswain was friendly enough, but precious few others were quite so welcoming. So instead she crawled into the hammock next to Nethras. Finding him awake and miserable, she read aloud in an attempt to sooth him.

It didn’t take long before he was fully awake and both enrapt in the story, though Varen’s reading was slow and stuttering. Nethras had assured her that her reading was fine enough – gave time to imagine the story. Not to mention, he couldn’t read at all, so there was nothing lost. However, he was prone to interrupting.

“Wait…  _the_ Asha’bellanar?” he mumbled, frowning. He peered at the pages of the book attempting to decipher the writing.

Varen nodded, pointing at the one word she spoke flawlessly. She read the letters aloud, followed by the name itself. Both fell into silence.

“I don’t believe it,” Nethras huffed, crossing his arms.

“Don’t tell my siblings that,” Varen murmured. The name burned in her mind. First the Hero of Fereldan… now this Hawke person. Strange that she would trade favors so freely, capricious as she was believed to be. If it was true… Perhaps Isabela would answer another question later.

The chance came at dinner. Only this time, it was Isabela who approached Varen instead of the other way around. She plopped down at the table with the Dalish elves, briefly casting a smile at Nethras, who had managed to crawl from the cabin to the mess-hall.

“We’ll you’re looking  _less_ green than before,” she commented with a sweet smile. “That’s good – better get those biscuits in you or you’ll waste away before we make port.”

“I’ll probably see them again later,” Nethras joked. He’d been having a hell of a time on board, but still clutched his humor. Only thing he had left in him at the present moment.

“I have a question,” she began, resting her chin on her hands and batting her eyes at Varen.

“Go for it,” Varen grinned crookedly.

“Why does Clan Sabrae  _still_ not have any halla?” Isabela inquired. Merrill had said they’d sent out the request for a replacement herd as soon as they touched ground in the Free Marches. It’d now been over ten years – still they were stranded. She smelled a fair bit of gossip lingering around here somewhere. Ralath’s immediate declaration of disgust only confirmed her suspicion.

“Halla,” Ralath began haughtily, “are sacred. Noble and intelligent creatures. They only do what they desire, and why we never bridle them. If they do not wish to go: then they won’t.”

“So… the  _halla_ decided not to go?” Isabela asked incredulously. She found a flaw in that reasoning she dare not voice to their faces.  _It was an_ animal.

Nethras had stopped chewing, and looked furtively between the three women wondering just how much Varen would let spill – and whether or not he’d have to hold his mentor back. He didn’t think he’d have the strength right now.

“Clan Lavellan debated sending a portion of our herd,” Varen explained, “but our Halla Keeper cautioned us not to. Losing an entire herd of halla is…”

“Testament to bad leadership?” Isabela filled in when Varen trailed off.

“Yes,” Varen agreed. “They’re integral to our way of life. Many things can be rebuilt or replaced. Not halla.”

Isabela nodded sagely. “Fair,” she murmured. Putting this up with the mage’s opinions of Merrill’s exile, it appeared they did not have a terribly high opinion of Sabrae. Seems birthing the Hero of Fereldan only got you so far; kinship and family only got you so far. She could empathize with that. “They’re still stuck outside Kirkwall, you know.”

“That is on Marethari,” Ralath grumbled.

“Hate to tell you this, but she’s also dead,” Isabela said softly, sitting straighter. Judging by their expressions, she was right in assuming they didn’t know. The Dalish  _really_ needed to communicate more.

After a moment’s silence, Nethras cleared his throat. “On a lighter subject, ah… possibly… can I ask you a question, Admiral?”

“You can. Can’t guarantee an answer,” Isabella quipped.

Nethras deflated, then glared at Varen. She was the  _exact same way._ Varen hazarded a coy smile. Nethras sighed and turned back to Isabela. “Varen’s book mentioned Asha’bellanar. That part’s made up right?”

Isabela grinned back at him.

“Oh _… Oh Creators_ ,” Nethras murmured, glancing at Varen. Then he turned his attention back to the biscuits and jerky, aggressively ignoring her tacit confirmation.

“It gets  _better,”_ Isabela teased, her grin twisting into downright wolfishness. Oh, the  _stories_ she could tell. Weird amulets, the Fade and lots and lots of dragons. Endless swamps, magic and death.

“I’d rather not hear it,” he mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit. 

“I would,” Ralath interrupted. “You met the Witch of the Wilds?”

“Yes. Though not Asha’bellanar,” Isabela replied, glancing at Nethras’ way. He paled.

“There’s  _more?”_

“Three, or so my math goes,” Isabela teased him, counting demonstratively on her fingers. “Maybe more,  _secreted away._ Causing havoc. Hexing people…”

“Far from me,” he whimpered.

Varen shook her head. “You are far too superstitious.”

“Oh, yeah? I dare you to go hunt her down and  _kiss_  her then,” Nethras bit back. Varen’s silence bolstered his opinion. “See? You  _won’t._ Cause you know I’m  _right.”_

“Now children,” Isabela teased. Nethras quivered with frustration at the moniker.

“What’s this about the Witch of the Wilds?” Ralath asked again.

“A story for another day, I think,” Isabela replied with a smile. This time, it didn’t reach her eyes. Whatever that story was, she was finished telling it. “Unfortunately, there’s not a book about it yet,” she said tapping the table with her hands as she rose. “ _Yet_. If it gets published, I’ll be sure to send it your way,” Isabela winked before striding off.

Ralath watched her go, silently chewing the last of her jerky. “I can’t tell if I trust her or not,” she admitted quietly.

“Me too,” Varen replied.

  


Later that night, Varen watched the dark waters roll about the ship, illuminated only by moonlight. Thoughts rolled about in her head, except unlike her shadowed environment, Varen’s thoughts were bright light and glittering gold. Flights of fancy and delusions of grandeur.

Her mind kept returning to that first night playing Wicked Grace. _The Hero of Ferelden had bested Isabela._ The fact that she herself was probably inconsequential in the larger scheme of the world was something that Varen chose to ignore. The Hero who united three nations – won the hearts of nobility and peasantry alike – who fought and vanquished the Archdemon and ended the Fifth Blight before it had really begun.

Maybe Varen would do the same great things and go down in history herself. Mahariel had made a permanent place for the Dalish in Ferelden. A home. Could she possibly do the same? Liberate her people and bring them back to glory – or at least to a position of freedom and independence. They need no great empire. Just unity without fear of repercussions from the shems.

Then again, every Second, First and Keeper had the same aspirations at least once in their lives. Most settled with protecting their clan and bringing a little prosperity to their secluded corner of Thedas. Those that didn’t give up those dreams of majesty were either exiled or died young.

Still, it was a lovely thought to entertain…

“What’s on your mind, Lethallan?”

“Ralath,” Varen whirled, “You startled me.”

“Apologies,” the woman smiled faintly, leaning on the banister next to Varen.

“You know what Keeper said before we left?” Varen asked, gazing back at the sea. Ralath made a soft inquisitive noise, encouraging her to continue. “She said whatever happened would be ‘momentous.’ We’re on the precipice of change.”

Ralath snorted; the sort of sound that comes when someone is trying very hard not to laugh in your face. Varen shot her a glare, which quickly dissolved. “I know. But I can’t help feeling…” She waved her hands demonstratively, unable to put the feeling into words.

Again Ralath snorted and shook her head. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed – see if you can sleep the full night without falling out of your hammock. How much did you drink?”

“Not much at all!” Varen protested as Ralath led her down to the cabins. The older elf concealed her laughter with a cough.

“Uh-huh.”

“Honest!”

“Go on, get,” Ralath instructed, ducking into the hold after her.


	8. Was it Justified?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 3/17/19  
> Notes: The burning questions are finally asked.

The days passed slowly. Endless sea. Endless sky. There were only a few more storms – nothing nearly as fierce as the first. Life was featureless except for the sailors’ routine. She began to wonder how and why anyone would want to spend their lives on a ship. But for some reason every person on board seemed overjoyed to be there. There wasn’t even so much a ripple or tremor of excitement when small blue-green mountains appeared on the horizon. No great longing for land – except from the Dalish, whose minds were overcome with it.

Their time was divided with assisting the crew, reading or whittling – or in Nethras’ case weathering persistent sea-sickness. The night was spent in dicing, light drinking and talking. Isabela and Varen often talked long into the night. Tricks from aravels and the frigate were passed back and forth. Knowledge never shared before – at least in this neck of the woods. Otherwise it was news from around the world – gossip and trade. Yet for as long as they talked, the conversation was shallow. Nothing of themselves. Nothing of their families. Their futures or hardly even the present. Neither woman was keen on opening up  _that_ much. Both were content with the companionship of small talk.

But it could only last so long. Varen’s slow reading hadn’t yet revealed Isabela’s part in Kirkwall – but she skimmed. She saw her name – and that was enough. There were precious few days left now that the Storm Coast lay on their starboard side, just out of reach.

“So, what happened in Kirkwall,” Varen asked one night, as the two women lounged on the bed, staring at cards in their hands. Following that first night, Varen was still loosing more games than she won. Isabela had not run out of tricks.

“You’ll have to be more specific, kitten,” Isabela replied, casting a card aside.

“That set the world upside down. With the mages,” Varen explained.

“Oh, you mean the Chantry blowing up. I wasn’t there,” Isabela replied coolly.

Varen frowned. So then she wouldn’t get the details of that night. Not now at least – not any more than the mages her clan encountered. But perhaps an opinion. “You knew those involved. Tell me of them, then.”

Isabela sighed softly. It wasn’t something she was terribly keen on talking about – and she’d hoped Varen would procrastinate asking until they’d disembarked. Then she’d never have to talk. Alas, that was not the case. “You should know I parted ways with the so-called Champion over four years ago. Never went back. I only stayed in touch with a few of them – all my knowledge of that night is second-hand.

“As for Anders?” Isabela shrugged. “He never stopped fighting, that’s all. Some people don’t know when to stop.”

Varen listened quietly as Isabela talked. Their game of cards had stopped. Somewhere, Isabela regretted breaking her ties with the Champion – the loss was clear in her eyes. The pirate would likely never admit that though. What’s done was done, simple as that.

Somewhere within, there was regret. Regret she didn’t do more. But, like Merrill had said before: it wasn’t her fight. Wasn’t their fight. And so, they didn’t fight. Somewhere inside Isabela questioned whether or not that was still the case. Whether that _should_ be the case.

Once more, she shrugged, shaking off the reverie she fell into. “He fought for his idea of freedom.”

“And what is your idea of freedom?” Varen inquired softly.

“That you choose it,” Isabela replied simply. “He took that choice from a lot of people. I don’t know that I can stand behind that, but-“ Isabela’s lips pursed in thought.

“But?” Varen echoed.

“He also gave choice back to people who had it stripped from them.”

So he was justified?” Varen persisted.

“You can justify anything with the right words and enough belief,” Isabela pointed out, tired that the Dalish continued. Still, she brought this whole thing up, didn't she? “Anyone can decide what the truth is.”

“There are always two sides,” Varen murmured. “Which makes it difficult to discern what is right and what is not.”

Isabela was silent, watching Varen through her eyeslashes. The elf’s attention was on her cards, though unseeing. Debating, taking in the information and filing it away to formulate her own opinions.

“Did they really debate an Exalted March for it?”

Isabela was quiet, then shrugged. “Wasn’t there. Can’t say. Rumors were everywhere though,” Isabela said, her tone growing irritable. Philosophic discussions were useless. All they did was lead you in circles and then nothing got done. You either act, or don’t. Believe or don’t. Simple as that. She could see this line of questioning devolving into such a circular argument. She learned the signs from Anders, and also how to quickly end the conversation. “Regardless, a lot of people died for the whole thing.”

“Sometimes, that is necessary,” Varen quietly replied.

Isabela was silent. Briefly, she met Varen’s eyes and a great coldness filled her own. Sometimes it was necessary, that was true. The cost of freedom was never easily paid. Shaking it off, Isabela revealed her cards.

“I win,” she commented lightly, steering the conversation away from difficult topics of conversation and bringing the emptiness back to her cabin. The night would pass quickly from then on – with eggshells on either side of them. Frigid, tense. Never straying from the shallow pool that their relationship had become.

Their journey was swiftly coming to and end. On their starboard side, tiny fishing villages zoomed in and out of view, the mountains rolled and beyond the rocky coastline a wide stretch of dull green fields stretched out for as far as their eyes could see. Additionally, the sea traffic was beginning to pick up. When the first sails had appeared on the horizon, Brand called for a Fereldan banner to be raised.

"Why do pirates fly a Fereldan banner?" Varen asked, eyeing the banner appraisingly.

"Allows us to blend in. At least from a distance. Most will assume we're just a customs vessel," Isabela explained. 

Varen nodded. Sneaky. She liked sneaky. “Another question-“

“You’re certainly full of them,” Isabela interrupted with a grin.

“Well, I’m not a Keeper’s apprentice for nothing,” Varen shrugged. “When you’re out at open sea and don’t have the luxury of mountains to guide you, how do you know your position during the day?” Varen asked, looking up toward the sun, shielding her eyes from the greatest glare. “No stars, no landmarks… just open water and open sky.”

“Mathematics,” Isabela replied. “How long you travel in one direction and how fast, compared to where you were yesterday.”

“That sounds… very vague.”

“It’s a lot of guesswork,” Isabela agreed with a grin. “But that’s half the excitement.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“It is. That’s the other half.”

That made the elf snicker and shake her head. “And what about storms? Did we get blown off course?”

“Yep,” Isabela affirmed. “But you have to find that bearing by starlight.”

“What if the clouds never dissipate?” Varen asked, feeling an inkling of fear rise in her throat.

“Then you go towards your most confident direction according to your compass and pray. Usually you’ll sort yourself out. So long as nothing happens to our cargo, we’ve enough supplies for six months.” replied Isabela.

Varen felt herself blanch. They could have died, she realized, even if they didn’t capsize. Suddenly the overwhelming desire to never, ever sail again overcame her. She swore on every ancestor living or dead: never again would she step foot on a boat. She tried to play off her fear as if it was nothing. She was fine, she was comfortable. She was at ease. Isabela knew better.

“Where do you think we are?” Isabela asked.

“I have no idea,” Varen admitted.

“Yes, you do,” Isabela replied easily.

Varen sighed in frustration. Her arms made several sweeping motions halfway between a shrug and a sharp gesture indicating she didn’t know. Isabela made no comment, nor acknowledged the elf’s wild gesticulation. Once again, Varen sighed and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

She wracked her brain for the old geography lessons that Deshanna had given her. She’d never seen a map larger than just the locations directly around Wycome. She knew how to navigate, knew of countries vaster than her own lands. But only through her own imagination was she able to arrange them in the appropriate order. In the end, she used a process of elimination. They’d passed the islands she knew were at the mouth of the Waking Sea. She had no idea whether or not they’d passed Ostwick, or Starkhaven. As for Fereldan geography she remembered Denerim and Amaranthine, and only a vague idea of where each of them were. They did however pass one large city, and from the flag usage they weren’t close to Kirkwall. So: “We’re somewhere within the Waking Sea-,”

“Well _that_ narrows it down,” Isabela interjected.

Varen glared at her and stated, in a tone akin to an adolescent’s whine. “Somewhere near the Storm Coasts. The rocks are becoming more jagged. So once we pass Kirkwall…. However long that takes, we’ll be about two days from our destination.”

“About four days out,” Isabela confirmed.

Varen couldn’t be terribly upset. She’d answered correctly, she found her way despite all her reservations. In fact, she did rather better than she would ever have expected. After a few more moments of contemplation, she cracked a self-assured smile.

“Merrill once told me a very interesting story,” Isabela began, “When Hawke was on her way to Kirkwall, Marethari said she felt her approach through the winds and birds and...” Isabela waved her hand dismissively. _Through things._

“She was a good listener,” Varen agreed. Marethari did have that going for her at least.

“There’s a practice in Rivain that’s very similar.”

Varen smiled and shook her head, “Marethari was a Keeper, a mage. Non-mages cannot listen the same way.”

“I never said they weren’t mages,” Isabela commented dryly. Varen stopped short and stared at her with a curious sense of awe and shock.

“Rivain allows their mages out of Circles?”

“They’re integral to society. The wise-women are like your Keepers. Listen to dreams, the Fade, summon spirits -”

“I wasn’t aware Andrastians allowed the use of magic in worship, ” Varen interrupted, cutting Isabela off. The pirate shot her a warning glare: stop cutting me off.

“Most of Rivain doesn’t follow Andraste,” Isabela corrected. “Maker isn’t God,” she continued, “or at least, god isn’t the Maker.” Isabela shrugged and shook her head, causing her earrings to jingle. “That’s not important,” she continued, steering Varen back to the point she was trying to make. The elf looked mildly confused and a little worried.

“My point is: you’re a seer, aren’t you?”

Varen thought about that. “Well, I don’t summon spirits,” she said, “but I suppose in some way I guess, yes, I am.”

Isabela nodded, and grew rather somber. She hesitated , wondering if it was appropriate to ask her question. She wondered whether it mattered, and she wondered why she cared. She wondered if she even truly believed in all that nonsense.... she certainly didn't have much to convince her of the whole ridiculous affair. Just stories and charlatans, endless wandering and eventually a loss of the self. In the end, Isabela already knew the answers to all those questions, and hated that she did.

“What do you see in the future?” The captain watched Varen become eerily silent and still, consumed with some far-off vision. “On second thought, I don’t want to know,” she said.

Varen nodded. “Thank you.”


	9. The Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 3/17/19  
> Notes: Rearranged and consolidated. End of the edited portion.

They were a day out from what Isabela said was their destination. Varen had begun to grow nervous. The entire discussion of the journey led her to believe the Storm Coast was a rocky and treacherous area, yet the area that Isabela had determined to drop them off was not so. In fact, Varen was pretty sure they’d passed it entirely.

Varen took that as an implicit invitation to enter.

Varen was hovering around the captain’s table where a set of maps, spread out and held in place with small stilettos at each corner, carefully placed so as not to destroy any identifying markers, while keeping it from rolling or falling off the table as the ship rolled. She was awestruck by the craftsmanship. She loomed over, staring slack-jawed. Her people drew, painted, and carved, but it was rarely to this magnitude. They just didn't have the space, or the time to do so while constantly on the move. It was inspiring; so beautiful her heart ached.

“It’s old,” Isabela explained, handing Varen a glass of red wine. It was a treat, or so Isabela had said earlier. “I’m dropping you off closer to the Orlesian Border,” Isabela said, tapping the location on the map. “It’s an easier walk to the West Road. Fewer rocks. Fewer bandits hiding in the rocks.”

“Thank you. And old or not it’s beautiful.”

Isabela hummed. “Couple of islands are missing tho, a few small towns. Still, she serves her purpose.

“You know Templars on sight?” Isabela asked stunning Varen with the sudden change of conversation. She nodded her affirmation. “And Seekers?”

“What are Seekers?”

“Templars’ Templars,” Isabela stated, confident in Varen’s understanding. She looked appropriately terrified and disgusted. “Black armour, same Templar insignia. They’re the ones called in when the Templars fail.”

“I expect there’ll be a number of them there,” Varen commented, frowning.

“They’re not to be trifled with,” Isabela warned. It certainly wasn't necessary, but it revealed another truth that Varen hadn't expected.

“How do you know them?”

“They abducted one of my friends,” Isabela grumbled. Thankfully, they’d had no reason to keep him, or charge him. Still they dragged him all the way to Haven for the conclave because of who he knew. If she found out they hurt him…

“I’ll watch my back,” Varen assured her. "What is your friend's name?”

Isabela paused, midway through shuffling her deck of cards. The look she gave Varen was downright accusatory. What ever could she be expecting Varen to do?

“I will look for them,” Varen assured her.

Isabela’s expression went blank. The offer seemed genuine, even heartfelt and it was one that she could not pass up. Which also meant, in some weeks' time, she'd be back to ferry the elves back across the sea. Perhaps she'd even bring Merrill along. "Varric Tethras."

"The author?" Varen blurted, shocked.

"The same," Isabela drawled.

"Well, he won't be hard to find," Varen commented.

“Even if he weren’t famous, he’s hard to miss,” Isabela laughed.

“Why’d they take him?”

“Same reason you keep asking me questions. I knew Hawke. Guilty by association.”

“I thought Anders blew up the Chantry,” Varen remarked. Did she have her information all skewed? All this time she thought someone else blew up the- no… that wouldn’t make sense.

Isabela was smiling at her. That same smile that you make when you know someone or something of a higher power is being utterly idiotic but still claim to be the ones in charge because of their supreme _intelligence._ “Yeah.”

“Well… that's a little fucked,” Varen replied.

“There’s a lot that was fucked up about Kirkwall. But we love her regardless.” Isabela replied dealing the deck. Varen wasn’t sure whether or not Isabela meant that or not. Best not to ask.

 

Two days later, the two women were standing side at the edge of the boat, staring at the dingy that had brought them aboard. The entire journey, Varen hated being aboard the ship, now she was loathe to leave it.

“Well, this is it.”

“This is it, kitten,” Isabela affirmed, catching the woman’s apprehension.

“Say hello to Merrill for me?”

“Varen,” Nethras whined from the dingy, “I want to be on solid land!”

“Of course,” Isabela said. “Next time I see her.”

Varen nodded. Turning back to the row boat where Ralath and Nethras sat waiting, she felt a wash of fear. Isabela nudged her in the back with her elbow and whispered into her ear. “Off, or I’ll push,” Isabela teased, her breath brushing Varen's ear. She shifted and fidgeted, pursing her lips. That was _not fair..._

“Varen,” Nethras called plaintively.

But as tempting as it was, Varen had to take that last step herself. That one final, clumsy step and it nearly caused her to fall into the dingy. She was left as a sprawling heap of elvhen limbs with a chuckling crew. They elves were lowered down to the water, as Varen collected herself.

“Oh, before I forget, Kitten,” Isabela called down to them, leaning over the railing as she waved a curious tube with a leather strap above her head. “You’ll want this, so you don’t get lost.”

Varen caught the tube, nearly fumbling it into the water. “Your map?” she called up to the captain.

“Don’t get it wet first thing,” Isabela chastised. Before Varen could offer her thanks, Isabela had disappeared out of sight. Varen clutched it to her chest, feeling a strange sense of warmth flow through her. Strange, Varen thought to herself, never thought she’d feel that sort of kindness for a shem.

Beside her, Ralath watched with the eyes of a hawk. In Elvhen – broken dialect and scavenged grammar – Ralath commented much the same. “Don’t you get soft now,” she teased. Yet there was an edge of warning. There was no place for elves among shemlen.

By the time the crew left them ashore, they were very wet, very cold, and very miserable. They couldn’t bring their harts with them overseas – animals of their character were not built for sea-travel. So they were relegated to walking, at least until they ran into the nearest Clan. Though the price for harts would be steep. Still, borrowing might still be an option. Varen gazed at the rocky, mountainous wilderness before her, all white peaks and jagged pines and felt a little hopeless. This would be a very long, long journey if they didn’t.

“Clan Redway is somewhere to south east of us. We’ll need to find them if we’re to continue safely,” Varen instructed.

In the distance over the eastern shore, a dragon roared. Echoing was a howl of fear from Nethras. “I have been here approximately five minutes and I already hate this land.”

“We have dragons, too,” Ralath pointed out.

“Yeah but not _nearby_ ,” Nethras protested. “This land is cursed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,”’ Ralath chastised. “Stop being a ‘fraidy weasel.”

“I’m not a weasel,” Nethras retorted.

“You’re a little bit of a weasel,” Varen pointed out, smiling to herself. “Pick up your feet or you’ll be left behind.”

Nethras stomped after the two women but kept a sullen distance. “I’m not a weasel,” he grumbled under his breath.

“Nettie,” Ralath called, winning a curious grin from Varen, “Bet you tonight’s rations we make it to Clan Redway by sunset.”

“No,” Varen cautioned, immediately losing her mirth, “No betting food.”

“You’re on,” Nethras said.

His agreement earned him a swift whack on the back of his head from Varen’s open palm. Ralath’s subsequent laughter earned her a smack of her own. Walking between them, Varen waited.

“No betting food,” the two grumbled, rubbing the backs of their heads.

  


Their journey was slow-going; in unfamiliar territory, and unfamiliar conditions (the hills around Wycome were _not_ as steep, and _not_ as rocky – a fact that Nethras and Varen both despised). Their progress however was buoyed with the aid of their kinsman. Within two weeks they had slingshot themselves from one clan to another, trading letters, goods, news and stories as they went.

Every hahren was eager to send them forward with gifts and letters to the next clan; and they in turn sent letters with them for their return journey. “We’ll come back,” Varen always assured them; they didn’t need to give them their letters now. “In case you can’t find us,” they would reply, or “Then you’ll pick up more when you return!”

By the time the trio reached Haven the southern winter winds had brought a bitter cold and thin layer of snow. Ralath and Nethras were quite happy to have a set of balms from clan Redway to ward off the cold. It was different here than at home – less wet – the wind at Wycome cut through leather and fleece alike, right to your bones. Here it was like a gentle kiss.

“What’s the plan,” Nethras asked as they crept through the trees along the edge of a pasture. He eyed the little herd of druffalo huddling together near the farmer’s shack. Their hides were speckled with white. At least, he thought, they weren’t nearly as miserable as those beasts.

“Scout the area,” Varen said plainly. “The town seems to be smaller than what we were led to believe – I want to be sure there’s no sprawling city hidden around here.”

“Strange to have such a momentous meeting in the middle of nowhere,” Ralath commented. “Not very inspiring.”

“Apparently there’s some old Temple to their god here,” Varen remarked idly as she picked her way around a thorn bush. “Or goddess; whatever. Come this way – easier on the feet.”

“How many soldiers do you think?” Ralath asked.

“More than we can count, I’m sure. Be on your guards,” Varen cautioned.

By nightfall they’d reached the town proper, and just as they thought: the town was much, much smaller than originally imagined. That didn’t mean that there weren’t soldiers – Templars – crawling all over the place. A steady stream of people were going to and from the mountain path, and everywhere there was the scent of fear and shuffling bodies consumed with restlessness.

Not good for them, really.

They watched the town warily for an hour or so, before retreating farther away into the forest. There they made camp, far across the lake but still within sight of the town’s cook-fires and chimney smoke. Their own fire was small, and Varen made sure to disperse the smoke a much as she could. The constant expending of mana was tiring however.

“We’ll scout the path tomorrow,” she informed them as they nibbled on their dinner. “Split up we’ll be harder to notice. Keep your faces hidden,” she instructed needlessly. Both Ralath and Nethras were skilled hunters, even despite Nethras’ young age and relative inexperience. The guidance was unnecessary, but it did not stop her from saying it regardless.

Nethras’ pride was naturally prodded; Ralath was quick to gently nudge him back into complacency. She is just doing her job as First, she reminded him with merely a look. Nethras rolled his eyes.

“Ralath I want you to take the mountain path, see what sort of folk we’re dealing with. Nethras I want you to take the surrounding area – make sure our backs are covered. I’ll scout the Temple at the top of the mountain – that’s where we’ll want to be.”

“How far am I to go out?” Nethras asked, through half a mouthful of jerky.

There’s a large gate to the west, we’ll meet just a bit east of it, out of sight of the guards at the large cedar tree, directly across the lake from the waterfall. We’ll leave at dawn,” she finished with a heavy sigh. “Now, if you’ll forgive me – I am exhausted.”

With that, their fire went out.

 

“I’m freezing,” Nethras whined in the morning.

“It’s winter, you’re supposed to be cold,” Varen pointed out. She too was shivering as they summoned the cook fire back to make tea. They’d drank it as fast as they could before setting off in their respective missions.

The higher Varen climbed toward the temple the more she cursed the Shemlen. She and Ralath had to lurk just off the road in order to ascend to the temple. The surrounding area was too steep and rocky to make it up the slope without the aid of the shemlen taming the land.

Ralath remained nearly fifty feet ahead of Varen – her footfalls were softer – she had the greatest knowledge of keeping silent. Varen’s training as a hunter largely ended when she grew into her magic – and while she had been a rather late bloomer as far as that went, she could not throw a stone at the other members of her clan. Ralath was wise to keep the lame horse in the back where the going was safer.

Under her guidance, Varen only fell twice. Well, three times – but Varen preferred to think of that instance more like impromptu skiing. Both women were exhausted and sweating by the reached the top.

“Noon already,” Ralath commented, eyeing the First panting next to her. Varen nodded, looking rather pained. “You alive, First?”

“Barely,” Varen wheezed, “I’m out of shape.”

“Yes, you really are,” Ralath said. She passed her a waterskin holding the last of their tea and a crust of flatbread. “Drink slow, it’s cold.”

Varen accepted the offerings graciously and did as she was told. Ralath eyed the temple warily.

“Big,” she commented, idly. Big and ugly, really, but that wasn’t a necessary piece of information to exchange. “I don’t see an entrance other than the front.”

Varen frowned. “There’s gotta be another way in,” she remarked. “There’s always another way in.”

Ralath shrugged. “The path is steep.”

Yet, despite the apparent impossibility of finding their way inside, Ralath knew that Varen would not take ‘No’ for an answer. She was right: there was always a way. You just had to find it; though it may be treacherous and difficult, there was always a path. So, with a sigh, Ralath instructed Varen to remain where she was and ventured out to circle the Temple.

Varen twiddled her thumbs and counted the Templars and the Mages that poured up the mountain. Men and women in robes of vibrant yellow and black, beautiful despite the travel stains. Each wore an expression of grim determination. Their shoulders were square, their backs straight but there was too much white in their eyes.

The Templars’ eyes on the other hand, were narrowed with angry tilted eyebrows smothering any sense of joy on their faces. Their backs were hunched, shoulders set and hands tense. Itching for reasons to grab sword and give fight.

Accompanying them, giving arms breadth between the two parties at almost any given point were men and women in red and white. Their priests, Varen noted, though she’d never actually laid eyes on them before. Every person there held rank she realized. If anyone wanted to shake the whole of Thedas excluding the Tevinter Imperium and Par Vollen now was the time to do it.

Varen shivered against a cold wind and pulled her fleece-lined cloak tighter around her shoulders. Keeper Istimaethoriel was right. She felt a little sick.

“You were right, there looks like there’s an old plateau just before the top of the mountain,” Ralath said as she returned, appearing out of the shadows like she was nothing but a wisp of smoke. “There’s some odd hot springs, and it smells foul but there’s a door. And few people,” she explained, gesturing into the relative area where it was located.

Varen nodded and rose to her feet.

“You can’t go alone,” Ralath stated plainly. “Your feet aren’t sure enough.”

Varen glanced at the road and nodded. “Guide me.”

It was mid afternoon by the time that they’d reached the location Ralath had scouted. The Temple had become quiet – by that time; and although Ralath had seen folk lingering on the mountaintop, it was empty now. Even still the pair hid within the ruined archways on the outskirts, obscured by shadows.

The land in front of them was an odd sickly green and yellow, with steam billowing from the few springs near them. The air was warmer thanks to it, and Varen was thankful for their existence.

Behind her, Ralath snuck close to whisper into her ear. “The Pools of the Sun?” she inquired, her voice full of reverence.

“Too far east, it’s not them,” Varen said, patting the woman on the arm as she deflated and backed off.

“What do you think is in there?” Varen asked, gesturing to the small door to their far right. Above it was a large dragon skull, years old and weather-eaten.

“I do not know – I ventured in,” Ralath admitted sheepishly. She was _not_ supposed to go in, but she was _curious._ “A Spirit greeted me. He said it was the Gauntlet. He told me my nightmares,” she said, glaring at the door.

“Oh,” Varen said, blinking. “Let’s stay away from that door, shall we?”

Ralath hummed her agreement.

“It will be dark soon, go back down the mountain and meet Nethras. He will be worried if we do not return.”

“And you?” Ralath asked, watching Varen warily. The woman was prone to arrogance – and feats of unnecessary sacrifice.

“I can’t make it down the mountain and back up quick enough,” Varen said. She was right. “I’ll remain here, and you can join me tomorrow.”

“No-”

Varen had but to give her compatriot a stern look – it was something she learned from Deshanna and quickly perfected. It made her terrifying and impossible to argue with.

Against her better judgment, Ralath agreed. “I will meet you here tomorrow. Stay safe, Varen. Mythal protect you.”

“And you.”

But Varen would not remain where she was – as soon as Ralath was out of sight, she crept toward the Temple and descended into caverns below it.  



	10. Screams and Slithering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy DA4 Day!

The door she entered led her to what seemed like an endless twisting cavern. Everywhere there were signs of old use, and a long length of decay before finally being restored again. It wasn’t the best of jobs – though that was less likely due to a lack of skill and more due to the age of the Temple. Some things once broken could never be fixed.

Her footfalls were silent as she slowly crept along the hall, holding her open palm at the ready. She kept her staff in her other hand yet helld it devoid of any channeled mana – she was not here to fight. She didn’t want to harm a soul, merely watch and observe. Any force she planned on using was defensive; aimed merely to hide her escape and ensure her survival.

It was eerily quiet. The silence put her on edge, and she found herself startled at times by her own breath. Varen couldn’t quite put her finger on what unnerved her so.

Then it hit her: the silence pervaded _everything_. Not even a mouse could be heard, nor wind, nor the breathing creak and drip of the old Temple. Nothing  made sound, as if the world itself was terrified. 

She swallowed. Something was wrong. She should retreat, wait for her companions. Wait for dawn, not venture into unknown territory as the world around her fell asleep.

Varen kept going against her better judgment. Something pulled her forward.

All at once the deadly silence erupted into a cacophony of footsteps, voices and the whisper and hum of the raw Fade. It should not be. _It should not be._

Varen was rooted in place, near paralyzed with fear of the sounds: there was screaming drifting down the halls toward her.

What was this place? The shems had built a dungeon here and filled it with the Void, she thought. Run, run,  _run._ Flee this place and never return. 

_“Help me!”_

Had Ralath been there, she would have dragged Varen back toward the entrance, chastizing her. Warning her: don’t be reckless. Don’t be a hero. But Ralath was not there. Varen followed the screams and the whispers that called to her. 

Her staff flared to life, crackling with energy and she felt the air shimmer and vibrate in response – she’d tripped a ward. Someone knew she was here. Soon enough she heard heavy footfalls at her back, fast approaching.

“ _Somebody, please!”_

The shriek of metal against metal, a groan. 

“ _Bring forth the sacrifice.”_

Varen veered to her right, following the deep rumble of the voice. Just a bit faster, just a bit farther. A well-placed step, a deep breath and shed slid several feet forward by magic, the sickly-sweet smell of the Fade at her back. Something was following her there too, she could feel it. She could hear it. A thousand tiny legs skittering after her. Something wasn’t right, something was broken – torn.

The veil was thin here, so thin she felt it pulling at her flesh and causing the hairs on her arms and neck, stand on end.

“ _Keep the sacrifice still.”_

It was if the world took a great heaving breath. The stone floor shifted, and Varen felt weightless, free. A strange sense of openness filled her. A strange sense of wholeness. The humming grew louder, reaching a fever pitch like an arrow whistling toward it’s target.

Varen stood before a great wooden door. Between the wooden slats and around the doorframe, shimmering like the horizon on a hot day, leaked the colors of the Fade. Voices, whispers. This was it. Time seemed to slow as Varen reached to throw it open, and then:

Blackness.

 

* * *

 

When next she awoke she found her whole body ached. She lay on some moist rock, and every heartbeat made her head pound and throb. Gathering her strength, she rose to her sit on her knees. Every muscle was tense, as if she’d fought a long battle and then slept in a cage. And then, marking itself above all others, was a searing shooting pain through the length of her left arm to the base of her jaw.

Varen cried out in pain, moving to shield and clutch at her arm but the movement simply made it worse. Her ears rang; and all around her was nothing but that high pitched ringing. Gingerly, Varen moved her head to gaze at the damage and found herself completely in tact, except for the palm of her hand. There, directly in the center, was a strange, green, twisting thing. A hole that lead nowhere and everywhere.

As if satisfied that she had acknowledged its presence the pain subsided and the mark winked and quieted. Heaving a sigh of relief, Varen rose to her feet. She found them bruised and scraped from running through the stone halls, sore as the rest of her body.

With the ringing gone, Varen noticed something else: a crackling, high pitched whine around her. Hundreds of legs. A slithering serpentine shadow in the dark. Then, one became many and Varen felt bile rise up her throat.

She ran and the skittering, skuttling masses followed at a pace that would soon overtake her.

Then: a bright light. A figure at the top of a mountain – a door of green and grey shadow, tinged with red.

The centipedes bit at her ankles and fire erupted up her legs. Still she ran, sweating, panicked.

The figure beckoned to her, reaching as far as it could, uttering soothing words to her as she climbed the mountain. One foot in front of the other. Shadows loomed and surged ahead. She would die here, Varen thought. She would die and there would be no one to find her remains. Lost to time and decay and the centipedes.

Varen reached for the spirit’s hand, desperate for escape. Warmth flooded through her, hope, perseverance and soon the elf found herself flung through the doorway to safety. 

Exhausted, wracked with pain, Varen fell to the cold stone and let the darkness overtake her.


	11. Screams and Slithering - A




	12. The Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dude, guys, DA4 is a thing now.  
> Hopefully, I can finish this by the time it is released. My chances are good, but... this is slow working. We'll see. 
> 
> In any case, I hope it helps ties ya'll over until then. 
> 
> <3  
> Ash

When next she woke, Varen found herself curled on the damp stone floor of a dungeon. Water dripped somewhere, and her bones ached from the cold and her long… whatever had just happened to her. She groaned as she sat up, finding her armor and her clothing drenched with sweat. It pulled and pinched painfully at her skin and when Varen moved to free herself of the discomfort she found her hands bound with manacles.

  
_Oh, no._

  
Footsteps in the dark. Varen was alert, the pain subsiding with a rush of adrenaline. The hiss of drawn swords. In the dim torchlight, Varen found herself looking down four separate blades. She could summon her magic and knock them senseless, but she was one of many cells and who knew what other horrors await her on the other side of the bars.

  
She sat quiet, still, calming her mind and numbing the pain that thrummed through her like drums. At uneven intervals, the twisting green mark on her hand would flare up, sending shooting pains up her arm. Every time it happened, her guards seemed to flinch and shrink back, as if terrified by the power. She knew not why – or even what it was. All she knew is that every time it happened, it took all of her willpower not to scream or vomit.

  
In the uneasy silence, Varen prayed to Mythal, to Andruil, to Sylaise – any god that would hear her: let her people be safe; bring them home; bring her home. Or give her mercy and end her torment.

  
That prayer was not to be answered. Word of her awakening must have finally reached whoever held her here. The door to her cell was thrown open with a fury that would embarrass a demon of rage. Light poured in around the figure, blinding Varen’s eyes and keeping her from identifying who the person was. The sound of armor was unmistakable.

  
The door closed quietly behind a second, leaner figure who was nearly the antithesis of the first. With the great gloom that flooded back into the cell – Varen saw her captor.  
An imposing woman with a severe face and the darkest expression Varen had ever seen on a shemlen. One of anger and suspicion – and of hatred. What’s more, the woman wore black armor – _Seeker_. With this vision towering over her, Varen had barely noticed her partner.

  
The guards stepped back, leaving Varen alone in the center of her cell with her interrogator.

  
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you know,” the woman growled. “The Conclave is destroyed, everyone who attended is dead – _except for you_.”

  
Varen’s stomach plummeted. She felt sick; dizzy, but she remained silent. The magnitude of that simply statement was opressive on a number of levels. 

  
“Explain this!” the woman roared, stepping menacingly toward Varen. She gestured sharply toward the glowing green mark on her hand, twisting like a worm caught on a fishhook.

  
Summoning the last of her willpower – Varen remained still, back straight. _We are the last of the Elvhenan, we will never submit._ Still, complete silence would not be an intelligent move on her part. Swallowing, Varen found her throat unbearably dry. “I can’t.”

  
“What do you mean you can’t?”

  
“It means I don’t know what this is,” Varen snarled back, “Or how it got there.”

  
“You’re lying,” the Seeker said, stepping forward again. This time, her hand went for her blade. A shiver of fear ran through Varen. Death was inevitable, but this wasn’t how she pictured leaving this world.

  
It was at this time the second woman stepped forward. She placed a delicate hand on the Seeker’s arm, effectively cooling her off like sand to a cookfire. She was tall, not nearly as tall as the Seeker, and slender. Varen might have called her willowy if it weren’t for the armor she wore… and the shroud. Shrouds were never a good thing, but maybe she covered her hair for a different reason other than to look mysterious and therefore mildly terrifying.

  
“We need her, Cassandra,” the woman said with a voice that was downright musical. It was exceptionally unsettling in this situation.

  
Varen swallowed, watching. Waiting.

  
The hooded woman turned toward her, “Do you remember what happened. How this began?”

  
Varen blinked, and clenched her teeth. She thought. And thought – and… “I remember running,” she began uncertainly. “There was something chasing me and then,” she shook her head, remembering the shining woman at the top of the mountain, blinding in her brilliance. Hope. “A woman,” she finished, “She reached out to me.”  
Were it her, Varen would not have believed such vague nonsense. An arrow to the eye socket would be her next choice for someone in her position. Funny, she still wasn’t entirely sure why she was here… How strange it was to die for a crime you had no knowledge of.

  
But the women interrogating her exchanged a look and something changed in the shemlen. “A woman,” the Seeker – Cassandra – murmured.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the Rift.”

  
Leliana nodded, and without further word exited the cell.

  
Varen, didn’t like the words “forward camp” and “Rift.” Whatever had happened, it was big. Whatever had happened, she was in the dead center and quite possibly doomed for an early death regardless of whether or not she escaped her captors.

  
Why did the whispers in her dreams have to be right?

  
Cassandra stooped to grab Varen by her arms, hoisting her to her feet like a sack of potatoes. This woman, Varen noted, was very strong and no doubt very capable. Escaping her would be difficult to say the least. She’d have to play her cards right…

  
She couldn’t help but think of Isabela with a full hand hidden on her person. Lies were necessary; give your opponent only enough information necessary for you to guide their steps. Manipulate their thought and their feet would follow. In that manner they could be made to do anything you wanted.

  
Varen prayed she’d be skillful enough to pull off such nonsense.


	13. Into the Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've added some artistic accompaniment to some of the chapters, signified by an "- A" at the end of the chapter. And will also be periodically including music that is particularly relevant or inspires the chapter. 
> 
> If you are a regular reader, be sure to check what has been updated.
> 
> <3   
> A

Once again Varen was blinded by the light of day. Cassandra led her out into the fresh snow – several inches deeper than she remembered. How long had she been there? How much time was she missing? 

Every step she took ached; as if her frozen limbs were forced to bend in ways they no longer could. Scratches and gashes pressed into snow and mud and compressed with weight and use. A fair fraction of the mud was wet with things... other than melted snow. Varen tried to block out the smell of copper, fear and the smokey after-smell of a lightening strike.   


Varen looked up at the sickly looking sky, green as the mark on her hand. It swirled around a the epicenter, bubbling and pulsing with a heartbeat all its own. Beyond the cracks and shimmering light Varen would see whole other world beyond. The Beyond.

_Oh, shit._

“ We call it the Breach,” Cassandra explained, far gentler now than she had been in the cell. Varen had forgotten her mask of strength, and stared slack-jawed at the horror in the sky. “It’s a massive Rift into the world of demons,” she continued – and Varen noted they seemed to not have learned she was a mage – “and it grows larger with each passing hour.  “ And,” she added in a tone that was in no way comforting, “it is not the only such Rift. Just the largest. All caused by the explosion at the Conclave.” Cassandra turned a wary eye to the diminutive elf at her side. Varen realized suddenly that was why she was locked up. Oh, sure, everyone was _dead_ and the sky had a massive tear in it.   


_ You tried ending the world. _ Not a comforting thought; Varen wondered what their crazy theories about her were. Generally speaking, Magisters caused trouble like this, not Dalish Elves with little to their name.  She almost had to laugh.

“ An explosion can cause that?” Varen asked, glancing at Cassandra. The Rift was mesmerizing.

“ This one did,” Cassandra replied, raising her chin. The Seeker was not sure what to make of this elf, whether to believe her or not. Whether or not she was their Savior or the Destroyer of Thedas. “ Unless we act the Breech may grow until it swallows the world.”

As if on cue the Rift throbbed, reaching out with wide, fat hands, offering glimpses to the Fade beyond and striking Varen through the heart with pain. Spots flashed before her eyes, and she cried out in agony. The world swam and suddenly she was falling toward the snow, incapable of controlling her body. It felt like every piece of her would vibrate into nothingness, and then come back to create something completely new.

She heard Cassandra’s voice pierce her thoughts, guiding her through the pain back to reality. She suddenly found herself clutching Cassandra’s hand so tight her knuckles were white. Cassandra didn’t seem to notice – or if she did, she graciously allowed it. 

“ Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads,” she explained. “And it is killing you.” 

_Well, that was comforting,_ Varen thought, followed almost immediately with the thought: _no shit._

“ It may be the key to stopping this – but there isn’t much time.”

Varen looked up at Cassandra and saw the woman’s face as if through a fog. “I don’t have much choice then,” she croaked back at her.

“ No, you don’t,” Cassandra replied.

She led Varen along the side of a large wood building, that, given shemlen culture she could only assume was the chantry. Once they left its comforting shadow, Varen was surrounded by a sea of broken men and women. Both human and elf alike watched her with hate-filled eyes, like they were mere moments from leaping out with pitchforks and torches to put her to death.

Varen watched them warily. Cassandra must have picked up on her fear; she was quick to fill the silence with her own explanation.  “ They have decided your guilt. They need it,” she said.

Varen frowned; _this woman had a very poor bedside manner_ , she thought. Not that Varen was any better.

“ The people here mourn the Most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The conclave was her idea,” Cassandra explained. Her voice held the sort of reverence that characterized a true believer. Someone that not only admired but loved the woman she was speaking about.

In light of this information, Varen marveled that she was alive – and that this woman was speaking so kindly to her. She still held a firm grip on her arm, though whether that was because she honestly believed Varen was guilty of the explosion or because she sensed that Varen was barely on her feet had yet to be revealed. 

  
“ We lash out like the sky, but we must think beyond ourselves as she did,” Cassandra said. “Until the Breach is sealed.” Cassandra released her hold on Varen, and stepped around to stand in front of her, blocking her path. Varen halted, confused, as she watched Cassandra release her from her bonds. The manacles dropped to the snow.

Varen narrowed her eyes at Cassandra and made no move.

“ There will be a trial. I promise no more.”

What else was there to say? It was terribly charitable for a shem. “Thank you,” Varen murmured.

Cassandra nodded, satisfied, then turned on heel and stalked up the mountain path. The same path that Varen had followed with Ralath. “It is not far.”

“ Where are you leading me?”

“ Into the valley,” Cassandra said, motioning for the soldiers at the front gate to open them. They glanced among themselves, but quickly complied, curious as to their leader’s decisions. Why was the prisoner free? What was to be gained? Maybe the elf really was…

A string of bloody soldiers and civilians flooded past her into the safety of the village. One voice above all the others raised a panicked alarm: “Maker, it’s the end of the world!”

Varen swallowed and looked up at the Breach, looming over them. A hum, a pull and then: something shot out of the rift, and the edges shuddered and reached outward, downward. Echoing it’s tremor, Varen’s own little rift bit and tore at bones and muscle.

It would eat her alive. Varen’s mind raced in the snow. She hadn’t remembered falling. She swallowed bile down and curled up into a ball on the path.

Cassandra had knelt to her side, and her steady hands gripped the fur trimming of her cloak. Varen was not allowed much time to breathe – the Seeker hoisted her back onto her feet. The world swam.

“ The pulses are coming faster,” Cassandra said, urging Varen up the mountain. “The larger the Breach grows, the more demons appear.”

If this is what she survived… Varen felt a creeping sort of dread and emptiness. “How did I survive the blast?” she asked.

Cassandra’s expression twisted into one of anxious confusion, like there was some great truth she didn’t want to admit to be true. Or, even worse, that she did want to be true but was afraid to admit it. Afraid to believe it. “They said you… stepped out of a Rift,” she said carefully. “They said there was a woman in the Rift behind you.”

Varen was quiet. There _was_ a woman. Varen’s brows knit together in consternation. It wasn’t just a dream… granted, they never were. But this… it was different. Dreams were expressions of thought and memory and emotion. This dream was tangible. Material. It was very disconcerting.

But Varen wasn’t allowed to ruminate on this for long – The breach was shooting out what looked like boulders all around them. Hurtling them at the ground like a volcano spewed rocks and lava. One such object landed just in front of them, collapsing the bridge they walked on. The stones fell away from under their feet and soon both Seeker and elf were sent tumbling to the ice below them.

Cassandra had rolled to her feet in almost an instant. The ability she had to recover was uncanny, Varen thought. Perhaps it was the armor. Perhaps she was just that much of a beast. Maybe it was both. She’d leapt to arms and now chased down a demon that had crawled out of a swirling mass of green goo and misty tendrils.

That was what the Rift was shooting out – demons. Every last falling bit was another creature tossing unwillingly into the waking world. Varen felt a pang of pity for the poor creatures. She wouldn’t much like that, were it to happen to her. According to Cassandra, maybe it already had.

As she struggled to her feet, surfing on waves of adrenaline - the only thing that kept her moving at this point - Varen watched a goopy mass form just in front of her. A hunched back began to rise up, following by scratching, reaching arms little more than sinew and bone. A gross mockery of what a humanoid body should be. A single bright eye stared up at her, and with its recognition of her face, the demon frantically clawed its way into the material.

Mana swirled up around her, a shimmering barrier that for a moment caused the demon to pause and wonder how easy its target would really be. But then… mages were so very delicious. How could it possibly refuse?

Varen knew her time was limited. A barrier only lasted for so long – even the strongest mage could not keep it up forever. It was like holding your breath – eventually you had to exhale in order to breathe in again. It would be especially difficult to defend herself with only her hands. Oh, it could be done: a mage didn’t require a staff to cast. But it wasn’t very intelligent to fist fight a man wielding a sword. Luckily for Varen, the fates smiled down on her – quite conveniently lay a staff within her reach. All she had to do was grab it. It was a task easier said than done – the bridge’s collapse had invariably smashed a mage defending the gate. Not only was their lifeless corpse unreachable beyond the rubble, but so was their hand. The hand that gripped the staff that Varen desperately needed.

There was some sinking feeling in the back of her mind: did this count as desecrating a corpse? They had just died, and here she was stealing what could have been their most prized possession, the only thing they called theirs, from their cold, lifeless hands. No one had lifted a prayer for their soul, or did whatever Shemlen do to guide their dead to the Beyond. She didn’t even have a name for them.

By the time she’d ripped the staff free with a high pitched grunt, Varen’s barrier had fallen and the demon had clawed at her arm tearing the fabric away and revealing the chain-mail beneath it. She was sobbing as she cast her spell; ugly tears, as the demon sailed away from her across the ice and disappeared back to the nothing from whence it came.

Cassandra stalked forward, taken aback by the elf’s silent weeping but nevertheless worried that her prisoner and possible murderer of the entire conclave now had a weapon.

“ Drop your weapon,” Cassandra commanded, feeling a little like an overbearing mother yelling at a sobbing infant. Seemed like overkill.

Varen put on her bravest face, which gave her some comfort but to the outside eye just looked like one shuddering breath and soft sniffle. It was not intimidating at all. “You know I don’t need a staff to be dangerous,” she  hiccuped.

Cassandra stared at the elf in front of her slack-jawed. What a strange day this was turning out to be. She had half a mind to ask why she was crying, but then given the circumstances such a question would be downright silly.

“ You’re right,” Cassandra acceded, sheathing her sword. “I should remember you agreed to this. And I cannot protect you.”

Varen sniffed and nodded. There was an awkward silence between them as they stared at each other, each not entirely sure how to proceed. Finally, Cassandra nodded to herself and turned to head up the river. Varen followed behind, wiping the tears from her eyes now that Cassandra’s back was turned.


	14. The Foreward Camp

They’d traversed across a rolling set of hills cut sharply by the winding river’s trail. The river itself was mercifully frozen over – which meant that Varen’s missing time was a lot longer than she thought. Every few hours she had to adjust her time-table. She had to have lost at least three days – though by now it was likely five. No river this deep could freeze in a night. Either that or the adrenaline that kept her going through every bump and bruise and bleeding gash also protected her from the freezing cold. Did it get that cold in Ferelden? Did it get that cold anywhere?

Their climb suddenly became sharp, and she was nearly on her hands and knees to make it up the steep set of stairs Cassandra was leading her up. Turns out the path she and Ralath followed was about as difficult to traverse on it as it was for them off it.

The higher they got, the louder the sounds of combat became. The louder the clash of swords and the boom of magic became, the faster Cassandra went. Varen’s lungs burned from the cold and effort, still she pressed on.

“We’re getting close to the Rift,” Cassandra called back, her voice carried off by the wind. Varen could hardly hear her. “You can hear the fighting, we must help them!”  
Varen would have asked for more details if she’d had the lung power to do so. Instead she was left wheezing behind Cassandra. When they reached the top of the hill, Varen saw a small band of misfit soldiers fighting a horde of demons. At the center of the skirmish was a small Rift, a direct mirror of the Breach high above them. She watched, dumbfounded as a creature wreathed in flame clawed its way out of the Rift – only to be stopped in his tracks by a single crossbow bolt to its forehead. With a painful screech it tumbled back through the portal.

Without hesitation, Cassandra launched herself into the fray with a great shout and almost instantly the demons recognized her as the greatest threat in the immediate vicinity. Within moments she was surrounded – leaving the auxiliary support needing only to pick them off one by one.

Varen had done her part – racked her tally up to a whopping two demons for the day – yet before she could catch even the smallest breath her attention was demanded elsewhere. The soldiers all stepped back, leaving her and another mage at the forefront.

“Quickly!” Varen heard the command as if she were under water, “before more come through!”

Varen felt herself lurched forward, left hand held up in the air and her palm out toward the Rift. Someone had grabbed her and pulled her forward – she wasn’t sure who, or even why. She had no idea what they expected of her. Smile and wave and the Rift will go away! Or even better: punch it till it closes.

Even as she had these thoughts, there was a crack and a thrumming that matched her own heartbeat. Her hand ached and seemed to tingle, like a limb that had been in the wrong position for too long finally coming back to life. It felt as if all the blood had rushed to her hand – pulling, reaching, demanding. Whatever the Rift was, this thing wanted it. They were one – it was her and she was it. All she had to do was reach out and take it.

So that’s what she did. Not in any physical sense, but merely the act of thinking, and her thinking made it a reality. The Rift seemed to sing and dance in response to her. The music growing louder, reaching its final crescendo and then: with a riotous climax closed.

Varen’s was thrown back, feeling like she had just inhaled a fresh breath of clean air. She felt strangely… rejuvenated. Whole; like she was meant to be this way.

She looked down at her hand in awe, flexing the fingers around the little mark that lingered there. Behind her a whoop of victory erupted. Someone clapped her on the back in jubilation. Her mind was still foggy, but for the people around her she was their last but solid hope for survival. Maker-sent.

“What did you do?” she asked, turning to the mage who had held her. He was far taller than any elf she’d ever seen, with curiously bright eyes.

In response to her question, he tilted his head and smiled mischievously. He looked like he'd crawled out of some tree's knot-hole, but the quality of his speech betrayed a learned man, painfully polite. “I did nothing. The credit it yours.”

“Well,” she said looking back down at her hand, “At least this good for something.”

The elf relaxed his weight onto one leg, holding his staff across his chest. “Whatever magic opened the Breach,” he said, gesturing to her hand with his chin, “also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized that mark may be able to close the rifts that opened in the Breach’s wake. I see I was correct.”

Once more, Varen’s eyes rose to look at the mage that stood beside her, grinning smugly. Yet through the arrogance there was a quiet worry lingering in the depths of his eyes – he was worried he would have been wrong, and that the damage was irreversible.

“So, theoretically, it could also close the Breach itself,” Varen mused.

The mage’s smile briefly widened. “Possibly,” he responded. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he murmured.

 _Oh boy_ , thought Varen. _Just what she always wanted._

It was at this time another person added his two copper to the conversation. A rather broad dwarf, who Varen was sure must be absolutely freezing with the get-up he was wearing; all gold filigree and open chest like his life depended on impressing every person he met. “Good to know,” he said hoisting a crossbow the size of his torso up over his shoulder – a feat of strength almost as impressive as Cassandra’s skill with a sword and shield – “I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.

“Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller and occasional unwelcome tag-a-long,” he said, making sure to wink at Cassandra. The woman responded with a rather disgusted noise and looked away, rolling her eyes. She clearly wanted to move on, though Varen assumed only half of that was desire to seal the Rift and save the world. The other was certainly a desire to get rid of the dwarf.

Varen didn’t move a muscle. If she was going to die, she wanted to know who was at her back. Right now, she had a woman who previously threatened to murder her for a crime she didn't commit, and two shady people far too invested into this whole affair for entirely coincidental reasons. Not to mention the handful of shemlen that during their little conversational adventure had fled back toward Haven. How many others would she immediately save only for them to casually ditch her in favor of their own lives? 

“Nice crossbow.”

The dwarf beamed, and cast a loving glance over his shoulder. He looked at that weapon the way young girls fantasized their future husbands would look at them. All stars and fairy-tales. “Ah, isn’t she?” he gushed, “Bianca and I have been through a lot,” he said, patting the butt pf the crossbow affectionately.

Varen’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Bianca, huh? Looking forward to hearing the story behind that…”

Varric grinned but said nothing. Oh, there was a story behind it – and one day Varen would wrestle it out of him. If they survived. If she stuck around long enough.  
Cassandra was standing in front of a low wall, staring it down like she could raze it with sheer force of will. Were she a mage, she could probably upend the world with such a show of mental fortitude. She turned back to Varen and opened her mouth to beckon her forward, then realized she didn’t know the prisoner’s name. “We are needed in the valley.”

“Varen,” she offered, turning to follow her. Cassandra nodded, pleased she could use her name now instead of whatever feeble noise she’d uttered. The dwarf and the mage followed behind her. Varen was rather relieved when Cassandra marched forward, gesturing for the both of them to return to Haven with the others. None of her anxieties had diminished, but there was also no time to be background checking everyone she encountered. 

Cassandra folded her arms and glared at their tag-a-longs. “Absolutely not,” she said. “Your help is appreciated, but—“

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?” Varric retorted, cutting her off. For as charismatic as he first appeared, easy going and care-free, he was a considerable force himself. “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore,” he pointed out with a wry and somewhat deadly grin. “You need me.”

Cassandra’s glare darkened, but she could not argue. Instead, she just grunted and grumbled to herself and hopped over the small retaining wall. Varric followed after.  
Solas leaned in, bringing up the rear alongside Varen. As she clamored over the wall without the grace of Varric or Cassandra, he stood back to hold her stolen staff and ensure she didn’t tumble over backwards. “My name is Solas,” he said, offering an escape to the building argument occurring between Varric and Cassandra, “If there are to be introductions. I am pleased you still live.”

Varen looked at him oddly, doing him the same favor of holding his staff as he hopped over. He too had more grace than she did – what did these people do with their lives that allowed them to perform such athletics so easily? Even after spending her entire life on the move she never encountered anything that required this level of athleticism. The farther they went the more of her pride was bruised. She wondered if, in the same position, Ralath would be able to keep up. Probably.

“He means,” Varric called back over his shoulder, “I kept that mark from killing you as you slept.”

Creepy, but appreciated. “Thanks,” Varen mumbled, “How did you do that?”

He shrugged, walking down the mountain alongside her. He didn’t stray far from her side, although Cassandra had surged far ahead of them. “Healing magic and minor wards,” he explained, “I feel we are past the point that will continue to help.” He seemed pained to admit it. Perhaps, somewhere, his pride was as badly bruised as hers was while being left wheezing in the snow like she'd never walked a day in her life. Nevertheless, he forged on:

“Cassandra,” he called, catching the Seeker's attention and momentarily stalling her march up the mountain. She turned back impatiently, “You should know the magic used here is unlike any I’ve seen. Your prisoner is a mage – but I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.” Solas rose his staff, gesturing to the tumultous storm above them with the focusing crystal.

“Well, thank you,” Varen stated, frowning, “For defending me, though that sounded strangely like an insult.”

Solas smiled ruefully back at her. It was true, he seemed to say, regardless of your own personal pride.

“Understood,” Cassandra replied. She watched Varen for a second longer before continuing their journey. Somewhere in the depths of her heart, Cassandra had already made up her mind – even if logically she hadn’t yet come to that conclusion. “We must get to the forward camp – quickly.”

“How much farther is it?” Varen asked, jogging ahead, Solas in tow. He followed on her heels like a Fereldan’s mabari. Given the fact he’d just admitted to healing her, Varen assumed one of two things was true: that he was not a very powerful mage, or that she had quite literally come back from the brink of death... Which meant him watching her so closely was more than a little disconcerting. She'd tried to ignore the shifting pain and nasuea that threatened to destroy her mind whenever the adrenaline keeping her moving faded. Speaking of which...

Cassandra had answered her question – and Varen filed that information into the back of her mind without really paying attention to it. The closer to the Breach the more she felt like she’d vibrate into little bits. Every step mattered; she had to watch where she placed her feet lest she tumble down into the ravine on their right.  
It looked like one poor soul already did that.

“Demon’s ahead!” a voice called – foggy. She felt a strong hand grip her arm and hoist her to her feet. She hadn’t realized she had fallen to her knees. She shouldn't have wasted energy jogging. Someone was speaking to her. He had a voice like velvet, but she couldn't make out what he was saying. Her tongue feebly tried to reply; but uttered nothing coherent.

A cool wash of mana – she felt refreshed… to a point. At least her eyes were no longer watching the world through a fog. “I’m okay,” she grumbled, brushing the hand from her arm. She had no intention of giving up just yet.

The fight passed as if in a dream, all blurred faces and shifting landscapes. Nothing felt real – she felt disconnected from herself, watching as she and her newfound companions vanquished demon after demon, trudged up stair after stair. She was panting when they reached the top of the mountain. She now had two watchdogs, one on either side. Varric kept calling for Cassandra to slow the pace. No time, was the answer, from both the Seeker and the mage.

“I know it’s difficult,” Cassandra breathed, hoisting Varen up to her feet – the Seeker’s strong arm was perhaps the only thing that kept her moving. “But we must keep moving. We haven’t much farther,” she assured her.

Choking smoke billowed from the top of the mountain – black and ugly. Oil fire – which meant people, rather than a simple forest fire.

“I hope Leliana made it through all this,” Cassandra muttered. She must have been louder than she thought, for Varric piped up from behind her:

“She’s resourceful, Seeker.”

Yet when they reached the top of the mountain they did not see the forward camp – but another twisting green menace. Varen groaned and cursed the thing. Beside her, Varric awarded her with a half smile, impressed with both the vehemenance and the color. Behind her, Solas was less pleased. 

“They keep coming!” A frantic voice shouted over the din of… clashing metal?

 There was another cool wash of mana just before Cassandra passed Varen to Solas and surged on into the fray with Varric as cover.

“We must seal it,” he instructed Varen who nodded numbly, “and quickly.”

Varen gathered her strength and crept forward rather than strode valiantly into the fray. She had little strength left to her – her mind apart from itself, and every fiber of her being trying to shake and split apart like so many shifting pieces of the Fade. Her limbs wanted to separate and float free, dance in the wind of their own accord. The only thing that knit her together was a full measure of spite and her new ‘friends.’ She was in no position to start beating at wraiths with her staff – but what she could do was cripple them. All she had to do was close that damnable Rift…

With that Rift, standing alone with her hand and her mana outstretched toward this curious portal into the Fade, Varen heard the sounds of the Beyond, both beautiful and terrible and found that as she knit the pieces of this tear in the Veil, she felt her own self stitched and repaired.

Screams turned to shouts of joy. She stood, again staring down at her hand with a curious fascination.

“We are clear for the moment,” Solas said from her elbow, “Well done.” A gentle hand rested at the small of her back, offering stability to her swaying self.

She must really look like shit if he was so concerned she'd fall over. “I feel better,” Varen mumbled in awe, eliciting a small chuckle from both Varric and Solas.

Cassandra stepped forward, fully expecting the elf to collapse again. When Varen did not, she turned to the soldiers and the gate. “The Rift is gone! Open the Gate!”

“Right away, Lady Cassandra,” a soldier replied. Instantly the great doors began to creak open.

Corpses lined the bridge on the either side of the gate, hastily wrapped in canvas and rope. Those still alive looked half-dead themselves. Their eyes too wide, too sunken with fear and pain and grief. Their world was collapsing around them. There was nothing for them to do but fight and watch their friends and family die.  
Varen found it easier not to look at their hallowed expressions. She was guided to sit upon a small barrel in the too-quiet camp. Varric tucked a vial of viscous red liquid into her hands and instructed her to drink.

“It’ll make you feel better,” he added.

Mutely Varen drank it. Grimaced and smacked her lips in distaste. “Do you not put honey in your healing potions? This is utterly foul.”

“Yeah,” Varric agreed with a nod. “I’ve definitely had better.” Still, he thrust another into her hand.

“Beggars cannot be choosers,” Solas murmured, though he too was grinning slightly.

Behind them a rather passionate argument was occurring – the three of them turned to watch, while Varen took shots of the various healing tonics being thrust at her like Isabela’s crew took shots of alcohol after a squall. Cassandra’s dark form was striding forward with purpose.

“You know, I could swear there’s smoke coming out of the Seeker’s ears,” Varric commented dryly.

“The prisoner must get to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It’s our only chance,” Leliana snapped back at a rather scruffy and dour looking priest. He looked frayed at the edges, like he too was being slowly unraveled by the Breach. There was too much white in his eyes, and every movement was jerky, stilted, like a horse ready to bolt.

“You have already caused enough trouble without resorting to this exercise in futility,” he snarled back at her jabbing at the air in front of her with his forefinger.

Leliana seemed to laugh but the look in her eyes was neither soft nor kind. Varen made a note never to make this woman truly angry. Cassandra was explosive, but Leliana would make your end efficient. You'd never know it was happening until the cold overcame you. “I have caused trouble?” Leliana hissed.

“You,” the man growled like a cornered dog, “Cassandra, the Most Holy – haven’t you all done enough already?”

Leliana stepped forward menacingly and opened her mouth to speak – thankfully for the priest, Cassandra intervened. Leliana immediately changed course. “You made it,” she said with the barest hint of relief. Cassandra turned to gesture back at Varen.

Sighing, Varen raised her hand to wearily wave at Leliana. If it weren’t for Varric’s elbow in her back, Varen would have never risen to meet them. At is were, she had no choice.

“Chancellor Roderick,” Leliana began as Varen neared, “This is-

“I know who she is,” he glared at Varen. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

Varen glanced at Cassandra, “And here I thought I’d get a fancy trial first,” Varen muttered. It was good that Cassandra did not hesitate to chastise Roderick, lest the entire crew hear Varen’s snide remarks concerning trials and Exalted Marches and the like. Probably for the better, really. Varric heard it however, and once again gave her a silent nudge to ‘shut up before you really do get murdered.’

“-A thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!” Roderick was yelling at Cassandra. The woman was as still as the mountains surrounding them.

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know,” Leliana commented. Varen noted that everyone was about three seconds from pulling blades on each other. Roderick’s chances of survival were not high…

“Justinia is dead! We must elect her replacement, and obey her orders on the matter!”

“So,” Varen interrupted, “You - what - you weasel around while that _thing_ slowly devours the world? Wait around so you don’t have to make the decision yourself and allow every living thing to be murdered?”

Roderick seemed a little taken aback. His mouth opened and closed like a fish before he finally gathered his wits for a rebuttal. He nearly launched himself into the air with the force of his argument, “You brought this on us in the first place!

“Call a retreat, Seeker,” Roderick commanded. “Our position here is hopeless.”

“We can stop this before it’s too late,” Cassandra pleaded.

Varen sighed and wondered how long it would take her to climb the mountain alone. Could she make it? Doubtful… but it was perhaps better than fleeing and dying, or remaining to argue until they died. Either way their choices were limited and not a single one had a real chance of success.

With a rumble like thunder, the Breach shuddered and spread wider; a great maw intent on swallowing the world whole. With it, the mark on Varen’s hand sputtered and spat little green globs of viscous liquid onto the ground. She could not withhold a little whimper of pain as she clutched at her wrist. Little spots of white light danced like wisps in front of her eyes. 

The argument stilled.

“Shit, are you alright?” Varric asked. His eyes glanced back and forth from the ugly mark on her hand to her pale face. The black vallaslin was a stark contrast, sticking out like old bruises and ugly abrasions on her cheeks. 

Varen did her best to nod, 'yes.' The tears rolling down her dirty cheeks did nothing to assuage their fears.

“The mark _will_ consume her,” Solas pointed out, staring pointedly at Roderick.

But the priest did not seem at all upset by that fact. He stood straighter, staring at Varen with the sort of pride of a man watching his family’s murderer walk to the gallows.

“With me,” Varen hissed, staring at Roderick with all the strength she could muster, “goes any hope you have of fixing this.”

Roderick blanched, but kept his ground. “You won’t survive long enough to reach the temple, even with all your soldiers.”

“The valley is the quickest route,” Cassandra pointed out.

“But not the safest,” Leliana said. Her cool blue eyes had not left Varen. “We cause a distraction and take the mountain path.”

Cassandra shook her head. “No, we lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It’s too risky.”

“Listen to me,” Roderick pleaded desperately, “abandon this before more lives are lost.” Roderick was blatantly ignored. Instead, all eyes turned on Varen.

“How do you think we should proceed?” Cassandra asked. He was no longer her concern, tossed to the snow like a dull blade.

Varen was more than a little shocked. “You’re asking _me_?”

“You have the mark,” Solas pointed out.

“And you are the one we must keep alive,” Cassandra finished.

It was a situation she’d frequently found herself in. She was First to the Keeper, many came to her for guidance, and many more would when Deshanna passed into the Beyond. She had been trained for leadership since before she came of age and took her vallaslin. But this? This was different. She couldn’t place how – it wasn’t the life or death situation; she’d settled those matters before already. But this was still somehow bigger in a way she couldn’t explain. That terrified her: this great unknown.

“We take the mountain path,” Varen decided.


	15. Beginning of the End - A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEY Merry Crisis, if you celebrate it. If not. Happy whatever holiday is nearest to the date of reading. 
> 
> I didn't update this week - or last week. Or rather, not last week and late this week. Because work sucks and sleep is best. Honestly, last week wreckt me. 
> 
> BUT NO MORE. So in celebration of my not being dead - I present to you: TWO CHAPTERS. The art doesn't count.
> 
> Have fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit you never realize how fucked your proportions are until you scan something. OH WELL. YOU CAN'T FIX WATERCOLOR SO WITNESS MY SHAME.


	16. The Wrath of Heaven

 

“We take the mountain path,” Varen decided.

Their companions nodded; Cassandra was obviously not pleased, but Varric pat her on the back as if she had made the right decision. “Leliana, bring everyone into the valley. Everyone.”

“ On your head be the consequences, Seeker.”

Cassandra strode forward as if nothing could stop her; Roderick’s final warning left unheeded. Around them the camp erupted into controlled chaos as every officer mustered the last of their men into a rough formation.

A slim young woman and perhaps one of the most put-together people in camp thrust a small sack of vials into Varen’s hand before darting off to follow at Leliana’s heels. Varen hadn’t time to say thank you before she was dragged off to go up the mountain.

All at once the last of their forces poured out of the gates shaking and terrified but nevertheless marching valiantly to their doom. Varen couldn’t help a little twinge of pride tugging at her heartstrings: this horde of shemlen all marching off to die for a sliver of a chance at a miracle.

Their little group quickly branched off to pursue their own course. “The tunnel should be just ahead,” Cassandra said, pointing in the direction they were headed. “The path to the temple lies just beyond it.”

“ What matter of tunnel is this?” Solas asked, gazing up at a series of tall ladders snaking their way up the mountain. “A mine?”

“ Yes,” Cassandra said as she began her ascent. “Part of an old mining complex,” she shouted down, though Varen could barely hear her over the wind and the rumble of the Breach. “These mountains are littered with them.”

“ You gonna make it up,” Varric asked, waiting for Varen to begin her ascent. He’d noticed her shaking hands.

“ Yeah,” she assured him. “Yeah,” she repeated, grasping the rungs of the ladder with both hands. She’d slung her staff across her back, sliding it in between the folds of he cloak so it would not be lost. With a steady breath and a prayer to the gods, Varen began to climb the ladder. The wind whipped her plaited hair around her skull so fiercly she thought at one moment she'd face-plant the boot of the Seeker on the ladder above her. The braid would be a ruined mess of tangles by the time they reached the top. Her ears and nose red with the biting cold. The others too were red nosed and shivering by the time they reached the top.  


The party stood at the landing carved into the mountain side gazing into a tunnel’s great maw and panted from exertion. The darkness revealed nothing, but the sounds coming from within were not at all reassuring.

“ And your missing soldiers are in there somewhere?” Varric asked. He wore a concerned frown on his face; something about his demeanor said that despite being a dwarf he did not like being underground. In this case, Varen couldn't blame him. 

“ Along with whatever has detained them,” Solas responded.

Varen turned a weary expression toward Solas. “Do you have anything cheerful to add?” she grumbled.

“ She has you there, Chuckles.”

“ Unfortunately, not. I prefer to remain realistic,” the mage replied with a easy shrug of his shoulders. Chuckles, no doubt, was an ironic nickname. Varen couldn’t help but laugh.

“ Well,” she said, reaching to pat her kinsman on the shoulder. The courtesy seemed to surprise and momentarily stun him. “At least you’re truthful. Let’s keep going, before I rattle my way back down this mountain.”

The journey through the tunnel, all things considered, wasn’t bad. Stairs beyond stairs and a frozen wind that tore through the tunnels and penetrated fur and leather and armor alike was the worst of their troubles. Oh, there were demons beyond counting – but the four companions quickly settled into an easy routine. Bianca and Varen acted almost like shock troopers (literally, as Varric pointed out) razing the field with arcing lightning and a flurry of arrows. By the time that Cassandra had reached the horde they were half-dead, it took little effort for them to pick off the rest that still stood.

While they were inside, however, they had lost most of the daylight. Although the sun could not be easily seen through the clouds, it was clear that sunset was fast approaching. The majority of the light came from the burning fires across the landscape and the Breach high above them.

Corpses lay at their fee their faces obsured by blood and snow. Varric sighed heavily, “Guess we found the soldiers...”

Cassandra surveyed the clearing in front of them, and made a small grunt. Shaking her head, she plowed forward into the snow. “That cannot be all of them.”

Varric was quick to follow, “So the others could be holed up ahead?”

Solas and Varen brought up the rear. “Our priority must be the Breach,” he reminded them. “Unless we seal it soon, no one is safe.”

“ I’m leaving that to our elven friend here,” Varric called over his shoulder.

The landscape was not only lit by the Breach above them – down the mountain the eerie glow of one of the smaller rifts could be seen. The flickering light caused the shadowed trees to dance to the music of battle drifting up the mountainside almost as if cheering them on. Varen liked to think those trees were on their side, not the demons’.

“ Rift,” Varen pointed out, gesturing down the hill with the grace and clarity of an Orlesian marionette. Her companions awarded her an odd look, none of which she was able to decipher, before tearing down the side of the mountain to rescue whoever it was below them.

A cry arose once they were spotted and with renewed force the small contingent of soldiers fought harder, knowing their fight was almost at and end. When it was over, some watched Varen with awe and wonder. Varen herself looked like a sight to behold she was, half kneeling in the snow, flexing her tired hand and catching her breath. Solas and Varric stood protectively nearby as one of the scouts updated Cassandra.

“ Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out much longer,” the woman laughed, the sort of breathy trill of someone who just stared down Death and lived to tell the tale.

“ Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant,” Cassandra stated, turning to point her to Varen. “She insisted we come this way.”

“ Shit,” Varen muttered under her breath, scrambling to her feet. She brushed the snow from her ruined armor in an effort to look presentable. Hey, maybe if she saved enough people and looked the part they might not kill her after all this.

The Lieutenant stared at Varen wide-eyed. “The prisoner? Then you…?”

Varen nodded. “It was worth the risk,” she mumbled.

“ Then you have my sincere gratitude,” the soldier said, a crooked smile spreading across her face.

Cassandra pointed back up the mountain to the tunnel where they came from. “The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment. Go, while you still can.”

“ At once,” the Lieutenant nodded to Cassandra. Before gathering her men, she paused to bow to Varen. To her surprise, the Lieutenant was not the only one who did so, either. Varen watched a stream of injured and weary soldiers make their way to freedom – each one stopping to briefly give her their thanks and murmur "good luck."

Varen swallowed, watching their retreating backs. She never much cared for shemlen. She was Dalish, and proud. Though Deshanna had tried to make peace with the humans in Wycome, Varen had had no intention of keeping that practice when she became Keeper. Yet now, for almost no reason, she was viewed as a prisoner… and a saviour. She had done nothing for these people, had no love for them, and still they--

“ The path ahead appears to be clear of demons,” Solas’ smooth voice interrupted her reverie.

“ Let’s hurry, before that changes,” Cassandra instructed, guiding the group further. “Down the ladder. That’s the way to the temple.”

“ So… holes in the fade don’t just accidentally happen right?” Varric asked as they scrambled down the mountain.

“ If enough magic is brought to bear, it is possible,” Solas responded.

“ Like the shemlen tale of Tevinter, I would assume,” Varen pointed out. Solas shot her a quick glance, curious to say the least. Though, his ‘curious’ expression tended to feature a rather severe and intimidating frown. Varen shrugged. “Magisters trying to get to the Black City,” she explained.

Varric made a non-committal groan. “There are easier ways to make things explode.”

“ That is true,” Solas commented, arching a brow at Varen. 

She shrugged. “Shems are stupid,” she grumbled back hoping that Cassandra didn’t hear her.

“ We will consider how this happened once the immediate danger is past,” Cassandra replied, correcting them on the little trail of impossible what-ifs and maybes. Varen couldn’t tell if her sharp tone was just her normal way of talking or if she did hear. Perhaps it was wiser to keep her mouth shut.

Instead, she occupied her thoughts with the landscape. The mountains had changed their composition – great stalagmites shot out of the earth all around them. Horrid formations of stone that Varen didn’t recognize when she was first here with Ralath. Then, it hit her. They should have seen the towering temple by now. See the cobbles, the banners waving in the wind. None of it still stood. Only the crater, and the malformed stone protrusions.

Behind her, Solas stated the obvious: “The Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“ What’s left of it,” Varric grumbled.

Their pace slowed considerably; all around them were the charred remains of those that had come to the Conclave to broker peace. Each with a face contorted with fear, limbs twisted in agony. These people died in pain. The four would-be heroes stumbled through the wreckage with a mixture of awe and sorrow. There wasn’t a single place you could look and not see death. And, Creators, the smell; Varen thought it might be in poor taste, but she could no longer bear the sickly sweet smell of burning corpses, somewhere between a pig roast and blood and burning leather. She brought the hem of her cloak up to her nose, but the fabric was already soaked in the smell. There was no escape. Luckily, or unluckily, her three companions seemed to have the same trouble. Cassandra plowed onward, steady as any workhorse. Her face was as unreadable as stone.

Around the billowing smoke and the rubble, the flickering green light of a Rift caught Varen’s eye. Cassandra halted at a balustrade of a balcony, and nodded her head toward the Rift, smaller and far closer to the ground than the Breach far, far above them.  “ That is where you walked out the Fade and our soldiers found you.” Reverently, she added, “They said a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

Varen merely stared in mute shock. Varric stood beside her, staring up at the Breach with an expression that was anything but hopeful. “The Breach is a long way up,” he commented quietly. 

The approaching sound of footsteps momentarily set Varen on edge, she whirled only to see Leliana and group of her soldiers rush to meet them. All of them were green around the edges, sweating and more than a little bloody; they had eyes as hopeful as Varric’s. 

“ You’re here! Thank the Maker,” Leliana called. Their plan had worked! Remarkably.

Once more Cassandra took hold of the situation with tireless resilience. Varen admired and envied her. “Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple.”  
Without further comment, Leliana and her men split up to surround the Breach and prepare for whatever would come next. Cassandra turned to Varen.  
“ This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

“ I’m assuming you have a plan to get me up there,” Varen commented, watching the soldiers dig themselves into defensive positions. Guess she wasn’t going to piggy back up there…

“ No,” Solas interjected with a quiet fierceness Varen hadn’t expected from him. “This rift was the first and is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

Cassandra nodded and turned on heel, following Leliana’s men down the stairs. “Then let’s find a way down. And be careful.”

Varen had no other choice but do as she was asked – or commanded. Obligated. Not that all this didn’t also benefit her. She wasn’t terribly keen on dying just yet. At least survive this, she resolved, then she could weather the next storm. One step at a time: down the stairs, around the shattered hallways. She was so close... and yet...  


“ Now is the hour of our victory” boomed a voice from everywhere and nowhere, as if it was apart of the air and the smoke and charred smell all around them. “Bring forth the sacrifice.”

Cassandra stopped short, blade bared as she gazed at her surroundings with alarm. The Fade had a tendency to echo when truly rent but surely-- It couldn’t be… “What are we hearing?”

Varric was as unsettled as the Seeker. His shoulders almost drooped – not again, his body language seemed to say. He had the look of a battle-hardened Templar. He _was_ from Kirkwall, Varen mused. Perhaps Battle-hardened templar was not far from the truth.

Solas’ expression was stony. “At a guess: the person who created the Breach.”

Varen took the lead. Whatever it was, whoever it was would soon be silenced. She had no fear of the Fade. The Fade she could deal with easier than most shemlen, and she’d done nothing but brush elbows with them all day.

Varric pulled her up short, grasping her gently by the elbow. “Careful,” he cautioned, steering Varen around a strange glowing crystal that was not unlike lyrium. “You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker?” He turned to regard Cassandra.

“ I see it, Varric,” she said passing him by.

“ But what it’s doing here?”

“ Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple,” Solas offered helpfully, “corrupted it…”

“ It’s evil,” Varric grumbled. No matter how it got there, it was bad. This was bad. “Whatever you do don’t touch it. And don't listen to the singing."  


Varen nodded, though the action was likely missed. Instead both hers nd Solas' curiosity was piqued. "Singing?"  


Varric shook his head and waved a hand as if to say: I'll tell you the story later. Silent and grim, he scrambled down the stone steps after Cassandra. Solas and Varen were left to echange curious looks before following.

“ Keep the sacrifice still,” the echo boomed once again, rumbling their insides. If it weren’t for the context, it wouldn’t be an entirely unpleasant feeling – like a giant cat purring upon your stomach. Here, now, it just made you sick.

Then, a different voice: “Someone help me!”

Varen’s head canted to the side. She recognized that voice… but from where?

“ That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” Cassandra cried. The stoic demeanor she’d heretofore upheld was instantly shattered. She searched frantically for Leliana, hoping the woman might confirm it; that she wasn’t going mad. But Leliana wasn’t to be seen – or if she was, any communication from her was interrupted. Once more the Breach flared and reached out for the bearer of the mark. Varen nearly tumbled down the last few stairs into the vast pit that the rift was centered within. She clutched her hand in pain; what felt like fire shot up her arm into her very skull.

“ Someone help me!” the echo called to her, within and outside her brain. She looked up at the Breach with stars in her eyes and saw… her own face.

“ What’s going on here?” her voice echoed, staring into nothingness.

“ That...” Cassandra looked from the specter to the corporeal Varen, frowning, “was your voice. Most Holy called out to you. But…” she turned toward the ghostly elvhen face but instead saw another she did not expect. Held aloft by magic, was her own mentor and guide – the Divine herself. Her neck craned painfully toward Varen, eyes wide with fear. Yet, those same eyes held the serenity of someone that had made peace with their fate. She had a new duty to perform: “Run while you can! Warn them!”

The image of Justinia faded, replaced by a dark shadow, eyes like the glowing red lyrium that surrounded them. Varen’s blood ran cold. She knew that face, somewhere… somewhere in the depths of her she knew it and feared it. But who…?

“ Slay the elf!” the shadow growled.

_Oh, that’s why._

Shadows approached, slithering, snaking toward her. Skittering, hissing: Too many legs. 

Too many legs! Varen scrambled backward away from the frightening images and into Varric’s arms. He pat her gently on the shoulder, “Hey, easy there.”

Okay, maybe she wasn’t as familiar with the Fade as she originally thought. She swallowed, almost audibly, and nodded. She was fine, she assured Varric with a pat on his hand. She was going to be fine. Pity her hand was shaking like a leaf.

“ You were there!” Cassandra almost yelled, she spun on Varen with the same intensity of the shadows, and Varen jumped. Behind her, she could feel Varric glaring back at the Seeker. But Cassandra’s intention was not violent – not this time at least. “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

“ I don’t remember!” Varen blubbered.

“ Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place,” Solas explained. He leaned serenely on his staff, every muscle relaxed despite their surroundings. But it was the sort of easy readiness of a cat sitting patiently and ready to pounce. “ This rift is not sealed, but it is closed… albeit temporarily. I believe with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“ That means demons. Stand ready!” Cassandra called, raising her sword to signal to the poor soldiers standing by idly after having nearly all died themselves. Most had to be shaken into awareness by their fellows, entranced with the Fade's memory as Varen and Cassandra had been. Yet within seconds they stood, ready and willing.   


Varric helped Varen to her feet, who pretended she did not need the help in the first place. Solas held her staff out to her, no doubt he had picked it up after she fell.

“ Thanks,” she muttered. Trembling, knees weak, Varen stepped toward the Rift. Open then close it? How in the Void was she supposed to do that? She barely understood how to close them, let alone open them. Perhaps it was the same, knitting and unknitting. Like untying the sails only to gather and tie them up in preparation  f or a storm. Though, maybe backwards…? Whatever, Varen held her hand up toward the Rift, fingers splayed. Nothing happened, but an odd twitching from both her hand and the silent Rift. Great. She felt the soldiers surrounding her shift with anxiety.

_Open,_ damnit _._ She thought.

Instantly the Rift emitted a gentle thrum and spread open like a great maw. A swirling heap of the fade pushed through, eyes peering into a world it had wanted to see so terribly. Experience the joy, the wonder, all the little bits and pieces of peoples’ lives. To live, to learn. One eye became two, two became four and suddenly a many-eyed monster of scales and wide grinning teeth had crawled out of the Fade and into this world.

It wanted to learn,to know... and its desire twisted it.  


“ Oh, shit,” Varen blubbered, staring up at the demon four times her size. She barely came up to it’s kneecap! Close it, her mind kept screaming. Close it, close it, _close it!_  
Every eye of the demon turned toward her. “ Oh, _shit_ ,” Varen breathed once more. 

Cassandra pushed past her and Varen took the opportunity the Seeker provided to dart behind the lines and attempt to flank the beast. Varric seemed to be doing the same thing on the other side of the crater. The demon paid neither dwarf nor elf any heed; it roared its answer to Cassandra’s taunt.

“ Now!” She commanded to the soldiers ringing the battlefield, her voice carried easily toward every man in the field. The depression the Rift had created made for a rather beautiful amphitheater, Varen thought. Strange how horrible things always had silver lining. Stranger still how such lining brought comfort to her as they stared death in the face.

“ We must strip its defenses! Wear it down!”

While they did that, Varen crept around the giant pillar that had risen in the center of the crater. With it as her shield she could practically touch the demon’s ankles and it wouldn’t ever see it coming – quite a feat for a pride demon. Varric was hot on her heels gesturing that he’d cover her, should her plan go awry. Hopefully that would not be the case. Varen outstretched her hand toward the Rift and it immediately reached out to her. It thumped like a frantic heart, gradually speeding up until it gave out entirely. The demon roared in pain and collapsed to the char-covered stone.

Cassandra commanded her men to renew their efforts against the beast, hacking at it in its weakened state. Varen watched as they tore into the helpless creature and felt a twinge of sadness. It was not to last long. The rift shuddered and the heartbeat began again. With it, several more demons were birthed out of the Rift, falling to the stone like rotten fruit. The spiny backs of Shades burst forth, pulling themselves into material form. Each turned their gaze to Varen as the pride demon staggered back to its feet. In fury, it turned its eyes on her once more.

Frantically she scrambled out of the way, finding cover behind Varric. A series of crossbow bolts pushed one demon into the others, and Varen took that moment to attack – A great ball of lightning sprang to life above their heads, reaching forth with crackling tentacles to keep the demons in place. As the Pride Demon closed in, Varen dragged Varric around the other side of the pillar.

It took Cassandra and Solas all their energy to draw the Pride demon’s focus back to them, distracting it as the archers and Varen picked off the shades one by one. Once they were all done, Varen once again attempted to seal the Rift.

The demon fought against it. It wanted to stay. It wanted to _live_. But not at this cost… not at this cost. It fell to its knees, heaving a great sigh before finally was drawn back into the rift in a thousand pieces. The heartbeat stopped, sputtered and the Rift closed, leaving nothing behind. And with it fell Varen.


	17. The Herald of Andraste

Varen was roused by the sound of clucking chickens and gentle sunlight kissing her face. Eyes closed, she listened to the crackle of a nearby fire. To say that she imagined the events of the past… however long it had been, to be a dream would be a bold-faced lie. But it was comforting to pretend that the hearth fire was one of the camp bonfires, that the curtains were woven reed and wool; that she was home. Free, happy and safe.

However wonderful it felt, she knew _that_ was the dream. Sighing heavily, she opened her eyes to see a rustic little cabin, with a few sparse wall decorations and the cold kept out by a set of sun-bleached wool curtains over the windows. At least that was familiar to her.

The first necessity was to make sure everything was intact: mercifully it was – or seemed to be. Her toes wiggled, her fingers wiggled; every mobile part of her remained so, albeit a little stiff. Furthermore, the itching, twitching mark remained on the palm of her hand. 

It felt as if her stomach had plummeted down into the Deep Roads. It was not over just yet – if it ever would be. The threat remained. Either that, or it would remain an indelible scar on her for the rest of her life. Yeah, that’s what it was. A scar. Think good thoughts, Varen.

With a sigh and a groan, Varen sat up and stretched. She wasn’t chained, the door didn’t seem barred. Things were looking up.

A soft creak drew Varen’s attention to the door. In walked an elf of such small size she could have been mistaken for a child. She was as skittish as a squirrel too, for once she found that Varen was awake, she immediately dropped the parcel she was carrying and fell to her knees.

“I’m – I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” she stuttered with her nose pressed into the hardwood. It took Varen a moment before she realized the woman was bowing, not cowering from her. What poor soul had beaten her so badly she felt the necessity to grovel? Varen slid out of the bed to comfort the woman, but was met only by her retreating form.

“It’s alright… why are you afraid?” Varen asked, stopping her pursuit of the terrified young woman.

“That’s wrong isn’t it? I said the wrong thing-“ the woman babbled back, reaching for the door.

Varen shook her head, “I don’t think-“

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing,” the woman pleaded, with a sense of clarity that she hadn’t expressed before. She was used to this part at least, or had practiced it. “I am but a humble servant.”

Varen frowned. Ah, a humble servant and most certainly beaten into submission. Varen wasn’t sure if she should hate the woman for her weakness and bowing to the shems or if she should feel pity. Pity won out in the end.

“You’re back in Haven, my lady,” the woman contined. “They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days!”

 _Three days?_ How much time had she spent in the prison? It had to have been at least a week since she saw her people. _Her people._ Varen’s heart throbbed. She hadn’t even looked for Ralath and Nethras in all the carnage. Had they made it out safe? She had been so foolishly caught up in herself – Creators, let them be safe.

“I—“ Varen swallowed what felt like a rock, and tried to clear her throat. “I uh… What happens now?” She asked, knowing full well the servant would not be able to answer. “A trial?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the servant apologized. “I’m sure Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve wakened. She said ‘at once.’”

“Did she? Where is she?”

“In the Chantry with the Lord Chancellor. ‘At once,’ she said!” the little elf babbled before making an elaborate succession of bows and slipped out the door.

Varen was alone with the crackling fire and the sound of clucking chickens. Was she supposed to follow? Would Cassandra meet her here? She wasn’t entirely sure. Well, she was dressed at least, none of the clothing her own. Hopefully they’d entrusted her to some healer that was respectable, surely they would have, but the underlying greasy feeling she felt could not be shaken.

Swallowing, she searched the room for something more substantial to whatever sleeping tunic they had given her. A cloak on a peg near the door, boots underneath. No staff, not even a make-shift one. Seems a trial was definitely still on the table, she thought as she shoved her feet into the shoes. Creators, she hated shoes – but she had no foot wrappings; who knew what was outside. Shemlen towns were _disgusting._

Since no one seemed to be coming here, Varen decided to go to the Chantry. She was shocked when she opened the door – a sea of shemlen and elf alike, a row of soldiers leading out from her cabin, preventing the bright eyes and reaching hands of the townsfolk from grasping at her.

Varen immediately shut the door again, while the crowd called out “Herald! Herald!”

“Fenedhis,” she breathed, back to the door, like she was preventing a horde of darkspawn from entering the cabin. Cassandra would come get her, right? _Right??_ Varen stared at the box the little servant had dropped on the floor and cursed almost every living thing in existence. Then she put on her bravest face and opened the door once again.

Shoulders back, neck long, _We are the last of the Elvhenan,_ she repeated in her head like a mantra, clinging to that strength for dear life. Calmly, she strode down the aisle of people, whispering terrifying monikers and awe-filled phrases like “That’s her,” and “Maker be with you,” and “Blessing upon you _Herald of Andraste.”_ Everywhere she went she heard “Herald of Andraste.”

She’d come to a small landing of sorts, the main gate on her left, and a wide set of stairs to her right. In a line in front of her with the grand backdrop of a trebuchet, soldiers saluted her. She wasn’t sure what to do back – did she salute? Did she nod? Did she ignore them entirely? She wanted to bolt, but that was not going to happen, a thousand hands would stop her before she took six steps. Swallowing, hoping she didn’t look as nervous as she felt, she nodded back. Though their stiff posture didn’t change each soldier’s eyes lit up like the sunrise. Alright, that was the correct choice. Also, they _revered_ her.

There was nowhere else to go but up. Beyond the stairs, the spire of the chantry rose up out of the pines. Three days prior she had descended these steps with the townsfolk at her back like ravenous dogs, now they followed like penitent sinners begging for mercy. The stairs told Varen one thing: she was not yet fully healed. Stiff, but achy like a pair of breaches that had shrunk after washing and was now being stretched by a desperate young child hoping their parents wouldn’t see they’d messed up the laundering. Nevertheless, she’d made it up the stairs – and these far easier than those that led up to the Temple. _The Temple,_ she hadn’t even thought to look up – she was too laden with her own fear to even contemplate it. But she couldn’t turn around and look – that might look weak and wolves always went for the weak. It would have to wait.

The whispers followed her all the way up to the Chantry, the tone here was far more frightened than below in the town proper. Whatever was on the other side of the door was not going to be fun. Granted, when the name “Chancellor Roderick” kept being tossed around, Varen wasn’t surprised. All she remembered of him was a very loud and very angry man who spit with fury every time he spoke.

There was nothing left but to enter. Within she saw the frightened little elf, shifting from foot to foot and ringing her hand outside a door at the far end of the hall. Mercifully for the servant, no one else was present. When she saw Varen however, she almost hiccupped in horror. Cassandra had not yet been told – the closer Varen got, the more she understood why. On the other side of the doorway was an argument almost as loud as the one that took place on the bridge.  

The servant whimpered and blubbered something to Varen. She was silenced by a gentle finger against her lips. “You came to fetch me and lead me here. No trouble, hm?”

The servant nodded, gazing at Varen as if she was her own personal savior. Perhaps she was.  Once ready the two elves turned toward the door.

“The elf failed, Seeker,” growled Roderick from the other side. Varen gently nudged the servant forward to open the door, attempting to get her to ignore the bad news. Terrified she glanced over her shoulder, but inevitably complied.

“I do not believe that,” Cassandra bit back as Varen was ushered inside. As soon as she was able to, the little servant dashed out of sight. Varen was left standing between two guards, while her three favorite people stood around a large wood table. The argument stopped at her appearance.

“Chain her!” Roderick commanded, pointing an accusing finger at Varen, “I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial.”

Varen threw her hands up in defense. The guards did nothing but gaze at Cassandra for their orders.

“Disregard that and leave us,” came the second order. The door shut quietly behind them, leaving Varen with her protectors and the Chancellor.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.”

“The Breach is stable, but it still a thread. I will not ignore it,” Cassandra replied firmly.

Varen rose a finger interrupting the Chancellor’s budding argument. “So I’m still a suspect?”

“You absolutely are!”

“No, she is not,” Cassandra corrected. Varen allowed herself to relax, just a little.

It was Leliana’s turn to interject, she was far calmer than she was during her previous argument with Roderick. He still snarled and snapped like a frightened dog, but this time he was chained. For as much as he railed, he was no threat. “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others – or who have allies who yet live,” cool blue eyes focused on Chancellor and he recoiled like he’d been bitten by a snake.

“ _I_ am a suspect?”

“You, and many others.”

“But _not_ the prisoner?” he blubbered, throwing another accusatory gesture at Varen.

“I heard the voices in the Temple,” Cassandra said, “The Divine called to her for help.” Leliana nodded her agreement. It was too large and too varied a group of people to be a conspiracy, therefore, it had to be true to the laymen who were not there.

“So her survival, that _thing_ on her hand, is all coincidence?” He asked, unable to process what was being said to him.

“Providence,” Cassandra replied. Varen felt a chill – oh more of this religious stuff. They knew she was Dalish, right? They knew she didn’t follow their Maker or their Andraste? Varen glanced between Leliana and Cassandra worried that her problems would soon triple if they hadn’t already. It was one thing for the common folk to believe such nonsense, it was another entirely when those in charge did. Once more, Varen rose a finger to correct the group. “I’m not a ‘chosen one,’” she said. To the quiet silence she added, “I’m _Dalish.”_

“I have not forgotten,” Cassandra said. Not forgotten or conveniently ignored. Either way, they seemed to be missing the point. “No matter what you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“Five minutes ago you wanted me dead!” Varen protested.

“I was wrong,” Cassandra simply replied. Any more argument Varen had was effectively silenced. It was a difficult task to admit you were wrong – she had never expected such a thing to come from a woman like Cassandra. Perhaps she had passed judgement too soon. “Besides, humans are not the only people with an interest in the fate of the world.”

Varen had to give her that, though she could not mask her frown.

“The Breach remains and your mark is our only hope of closing it,” Leliana pointed out.

“This is not for you to decide!” Roderick piped up, but his attempt at reclaiming the situation was futile.

In response to his outburst, a thick book was slammed down onto the table in front of him. Despite himself, he jumped. Varen did too.

“You know what this is, Chancellor?” Cassandra hissed over the table. He looked worried, but it was plain that he knew what it was. “A writ from the Divine, granting us authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

Roderick glanced at Leliana, and at Varen – or maybe he was looking at the door – as Cassandra circled around the table. She was close enough that she could quite possibly smell what he’d eaten for breakfast – and he her. Roderick seemed to shrink under her authority; which she emphasized with appropriately timed jabs to his chest with her armored finger.

“We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order with or _without_ your approval,” she hissed.

Silence.

Roderick beat a hasty retreat with his tail between his legs; Varen was forced to step aside or be bowled over in his haste.

As the door slammed shut Varen looked back at Leliana and Cassandra. “Well, that went well.”

Leliana sighed heavily and looked at Cassandra with a mixture of relief and frustration. “This is the Divine’s directive: Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against chaos – but we aren’t ready! We have no leader, no numbers and now no chantry support.”

Cassandra shook her head, “We have no choice. We must act now.” Varen stiffened as Cassandra turned her focus back to Varen, “With you at our side.”

It was clear they expected her to say ‘yes’ and get to work. But there was one glaring problem. “Quick question: what ‘Inquisition of old?’”

“It preceded the Chantry,” Leliana explained, “People who banded together to restore order in a world gone mad.”

“After they laid down their banner and formed the Templar Order, but they have lost their way. We need those who can do what must be done united under a single banner once more," Cassandra added. The two women looked at Varen expectantly. More of this Herald of Andraste, gibberish, again.

Varen swallowed and shifted her weight, trying to appear brave. She wasn't sure she succeeded. “Great,” Varen said, but things were not great. “Define ‘order in a world gone mad’ and ‘do what must be done.’”

“For now,” Leliana said, catching the line of thought that Varen had; Mahariel had a few of the same fears, though she was not often vocal about them. Truthfully, they seemed at the back of her mind – and a pleasant surprise when Queen Anora granted lands to the Dalish. “It means closing the Breach.”

“And after?”

“We will see,” Leliana replied easily. That was most likely a long way ahead – and who knew what would happen in the meantime. “As for what must be done, again, we will see.”

Varen didn’t like the sound of that. There was a lot of room for abuse of power. “What about the Chantry? What does that make us?”

“Heretics, most likely,” Cassandra snorted.

“The Chantry will take time to find a new Divine, and then it will wait for her direction,” Leliana said.

“ _We_ cannot wait.”

“Alright… so what’s next?” Varen sighed. It wasn’t as if she had much choice – the Breach was still there, and quite frankly these people were likely all that stood between her and certain death complete with mock trial. Maybe if she were really unluckly, a purging of heretic elves and destroyers of the world would soon follow. It was a risk she could not take.

“We rally our forces,” Cassandra said.

“All six of them,” Leliana murmured. “There are two others who you must meet before we proceed,” she continued, guiding Varen toward the door. No doubt these two mystery people were lurking somewhere near by, like cats waiting to pounce upon their prey. "Come, you'll meet them now."


	18. The Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I'm alive and writing again. I apologize for the horrendous delay of what? three months? I had a shitty toxic job, and booooy was it fuckin up my brain. 
> 
> But now I have a new, wonderful job that allows me to write on a daily basis. I'm now several chapters ahead, and will likely update on a weekly basis (Tuesday ish.) If the demand grows then I'll do a Monday/Thursday thing. 
> 
> As a final note: This update comes with a heavily edited Chapters 2-8. Nothing really changes, so if you don't want to go back you don't have to. All I did was expand a little more on Clan Lavellan, and rearrange shit with Isabela. Hopefully, it gives you a better look at who these fuckers are rather than just rampant name droppings. 
> 
> I'm learning. Thanks for putting up with my bullshit. 
> 
> As a note: the next several chapters deviate from canon dialogue a lot. So if you're tired of reading shit you play in game, new content is coming soon I promise. Starts somewhere in this chapter, grows with the next and then goes off the rails for a few more and then is only peppers with canon stuff. 
> 
> Hope you have fun. <3

The moment that the trio exited the study they found themselves, Varen discovered the Chantry occupied by two other people, man and woman. The main doors were closed, leaving them shrouded in shadows and flickering candlelight. While that had given Leliana and Cassandra an imposing first introduction, the dim light only softened these two.

The man stood with one hand resting easily on the pommel of his sword. It was a soldier’s comfort, like a child’s safety blanket. The hand that rested there was not his sword arm – he meant no threat to her, nor did it allow for any thread to be perceived. Yet it was enough of a warning to deter anyone looking to pick a fight. His face was kind, even despite the dark circles under his eyes. Something in the way those blue eyes shifted about the room revealed to the discerning person that those heavy bags was not due to lack of sleep.

The woman, Varen far more pleasing to look at. Though whether it was because she was fair of face and quick to smile or the glittering gold and silk that she wore, Varen wasn’t entirely sure. What did matter is that the woman was downright mesmerizing. 

Leliana gently nudged Varen in the side with her elbow and cleared her throat. Varen dipped her chin, bashfully and made sure to close her mouth. Deshanna would chastise her for catching flies no doubt – Sylaise’s grace, she was over thirty, and here she was blushing like a school girl. Hopefully, the woman in gold didn’t catch on.

“Herald, this is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat,” Leliana said, and the woman stepped forward and made a gentile courtesy. The smile tugging at her lips said that ‘yes, she did notice.’

“ _Andaran Atish'an,”_ Josephine said. Although her accent was certainly flawed, the heart was there – and through that Varen’s own heart soared straight through the rafters.

“You speak elven?” Varen said, dipping her head in greeting. She could not prevent herself from smiling.

Josephine looked a little abashed. Her dark eyes glanced away from Varen as she sheepishly admitted, “You’re just heard the entirety of it, I’m afraid.”

_Oh, what a shame._

It was Cassandra who interrupted this time. Once more, Varen’s gaze was directed back toward the blue-eyed ball of fur. “May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.”

“Such as they are,” the man replied. Fereldan, by his accent. And his name… his name was terribly familiar, but she couldn’t determine from where. “We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through.”

“Along with Sister Leliana, we will help facilitate closing the Breach.”

Varen frowned, glancing back at Leliana. “Are you our Chantry liaison?” she asked frowning.

Leliana’s smile was cryptic at best. It certainly did not reach her eyes. “In a sense,” she replied.

While Cullen and Josephine both seemed to give her a disparaging look (Josie more humorous, Cullen had clearly tired of such nonsense long ago) Cassandra outright stated, “She is our Spymaster.”

“Tactfully put,” Leliana sighed.

“Oh, delightful, that-” Varen trailed off into a hum. _-was my job, approximately two weeks ago._ Best not incriminate yourself right out of jail, Varen chastised herself. The four advisors offered curious looks but not a one said anything. Leliana looked like didn’t didn’t even need to.

“What’s important is that your mark is now stable, as is the Breach,” Cassandra stated. She was a woman of all business and sharp edges. Varen wondered if there was a soft-spot to her. Probably not. She probably had iron for skin. Good thing too, since she was the one defending Varen most often. “You’ve given us time, and Solas believes that a second attempt might succeed – provided the mark has more power. The same level of power used to open the Breach in the first place. That is not easy to come by.”

“Sounds like death,” Varen replied dryly.

Cassandra paused, and her eyebrows raised. “And people call me a pessimist.”

Varen grinned in response. When you fall of the edge of a cliff, you might as well enjoy the flight down. “So what’s the plan?”

Leliana was first to speak, “We should approach the rebel mages for help.”

“And I still disagree,” Cullen declared, hardly waiting for Leliana’s last syllable to be uttered. Those shifty eyes were suddenly fiercely intent on their target. “The Templars could serve just as well.”

Josephine stiffened between them, staring at the little wooden writing board she carried as if there were very important scribbled notes that needed to be deciphered. She’d clearly been in the middle of this argument once already.

“We need power, Commander,” Cassandra replied, firmly but evenly. It was an argument not based out of moral opinions or emotional bias. Josephine’s eyes flicked to Cassandra as she spoke. “Enough magic poured into that mark–”

“Might destroy us all. Templars could suppress the breach, weaken it so–” the Commander’s argument was less based in logic, Varen noted. His eyes were too wide, and when he wasn’t speaking the muscles at his temples bulged. He was angry – or afraid.

“Pure speculation,” Leliana retorted.

“ _I_ was a Templar,” _ah, there it was, “_ I know what they’re capable of.”

“Unfortunately,” Josephine interrupted what was very likely the next rift to open on Thedas. She rose her quill feather subtly so that it would catch the eye of all parties and draw their eyes to her. Rather like how cats follow string. “Neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition – and you, specifically.” Josie finished nodding to the elf.

“That seems premature,” Varen stated, shifting her weight with a heavy sigh. “Does it really matter?”

“Unfortunately not,” Leliana replied drolly.

“Some are calling you – a Dalish elf – the 'Herald of Andraste.’ That frightens the Chantry,” said Josephine, pointedly. “We cannot ignore them. The remaining Clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you.”

That cooled Varen’s blood. Pitchforks and fire came next – and it would be oh, so easy due to her ears and her staff.

Cassandra’s grumble of malcontent was almost a snarl. “Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt.”

Josephine nodded. Turning back to Varen she continued her explanation. “It limits our options. Approaching the mages or templars for help is currently out of the question.”

“First off,” Varen interrupted, holding up a finger in much the same way that Josephine had caught their attention with a feather. “Just how am I the ‘Herald of Andraste?’”

Cassandra’s tone was gentle, reverent. It was not unlike how she spoke of Varen’s vision in the Fade. “People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.”

“Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading–” Leliana began.

“Which we have not.”

Leliana sighed, staring at Cassandra wearily. She was so very tired of being interrupted. She waited until she was sure Cassandra was very much finished before proceeding. Cassandra’s affirmation was a simple shrug. _Get on with it._ “The point is,” she stated very simply, turning to Varen, “everyone is talking about you.”

“It’s quite the title, isn’t it?” Cullen’s smile was lopsided, like he’d forgotten how to smile ages prior. “How do you feel about that?”

“Well,” Varen replied, eyeing Cullen with the same fierceness that he had awarded Leliana only moments prior. As a Templar and a shemlen, he had two marks against him at that moment. “I’m Dalish for one thing, so I believe them to be both ignorant and foolish. I’m no herald of anything. Particularly Andraste.”

His smile faded, but not his humor. “I’m sure the Chantry would agree."

Cullen wasn’t the only one whose spirits seemed to dampen by her forceful declaration. Leliana was next to speak, and her voice was quiet. Although she didn’t harbor the same passion that Cassandra had, they were most definitely cut from the same cloth of believer. “People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign.”

“And to others, a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong,” Josephine added with her own touch of realism.

That gave her about a fifty-fifty chance of survival. Those weren’t bad figures; not the best, surely, but not bad.

“Secondly, we’re not threatened by any ah, _Exalted Marches,_ are we?” Varen practically hissed the words. Although she smiled it was about at harmless as one of Leliana’s smiles. 

The advisors shifted, glanced between themselves and separately shook their heads. It was doubtful, but they very well couldn’t blame the Dalish Elf for immediately jumping to that conclusion regardless of how uncomfortable the accusation was.

Still, Cullen remarked with a sort of scoff, “They have only words at their disposal.”

Josephine eyed Cullen, knowing full well the weight that words could carry. “And yet, they may bury us with them,” she was careful to point out. The Commander knew his way around a blade, but not politics, and politics would surely end them just as swiftly.

Varen sighed, “They aren’t more concerned about the Breach? You know the whole slowly spreading wide enough to swallow the world thing. It’s as bright as the sun.”

Cullen shrugged. “They do know that it is a threat, they just don’t think we can stop it.”

“Well that’s uplifting,” Varen replied.

“The Chantry is telling everyone that you’ll make it worse,” Josephine added.

“Even better!”

“Do not lose that humor,” Cassandra almost laughed.

Leliana too was laughing. Varen’s humor in the face of total obliteration was uplifting. Comforting. Quietly, she wondered if all the Dalish had such morbid optimism. Mahariel was very similar. “There is something you can do. A Chantry Cleric by the name Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

“She knows people better than the Spymaster?”

“I know _things._ She knows _people,”_ Leliana corrected.

“Fair point,” Varen conceded. “So where is she?”

“In the Hinterlands tending to the wounded near Redcliffe.”

“Wonderful." Varen had very little idea where that was. "And why would she help us?” she inquired.

Leliana shrugged and shook her head. “I understand she is a reasonable sort. Perhaps she doesn’t agree with her sisters?”

“Well that would be a miracle, let’s hope I have more tucked up my sleeve, hmm?” Varen gave a cheeky wink to the Spymaster. The sound Leliana made was somewhere between a laugh and a snort.

“If I may,” Cullen interrupted, “Look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence while you’re there.”

“We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley, and you’re better suited than anyone to recruit them,” Josephine added.

Cassandra nodded. Varen was already heading for the door without her. She spoke briefly with the other three advisors before trailing after the Dalish elf.

“You are eager to depart, I take it,” she commented, walking alongside Varen.

“The sooner I get to this Mother Giselle, the sooner the Breach is closed,” and the sooner I go home, Varen thought. Though she dare not speak of skipping out to Cassandra’s face. They may put her under lock and key again; then she’d never be free.

“Give us time to prepare and we will leave tomorrow morning.”

“Us?” Varen asked, stopping just shy of the Chantry doors. She turned to face Cassandra, searching her dark eyes for information. There was no need: Cassandra was an open book.

“It would be dangerous to go alone-”

“I’m Dalish,” Varen pointed out, cutting her off. “I can only be seen when I wish to.”

“Regardless, you are too valuable to risk,” Cassandra replied firmly. “Varric and Solas will accompany us. They were the men from the mou-”

“I remember them,” Varen sighed. She stared at the cobblestones beneath her feet and sighed heavily. “Very well, at dawn tomorrow.”

She allowed for no acquiescence or rebuttal from Cassandra before she drew her shoulders up and pushed open the Chantry doors as if she owned them. After all, if they were to proclaim her touched by a deity, she might as well act the part.


	19. Found Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free of suspicion, for now, Varen is free to follow up on old promises and find old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so guess who forgot it was Tuesday? Guess who kept getting weird anxiety about needing to do something after work, and never remembering what it was? Me  
> Sorry guys.

Ditching Cassandra was easy. Ditching everyone else, less so. The quartermaster apparently needed her time, as well as the healer, and a slew of other varied faces. It rather felt like she was Keeper already, ensuring the entire camp was well-cared for, completing their duties and generally keeping the place running. Creators, damn it all: she was First to the Keeper and was _not_ in charge of these shems. So, she did what any reluctant politician did: offered her assurances that she would be by shortly, as soon as her duties would allow her. Then, she promptly ignored all pleas.

She had bigger things to take care of – and a single person to find; wherever he may be. Turns out, it wasn’t hard to find him, either. He’d made himself comfortable in front of a large bonfire just before the large set of stairs that led to the front gates.

Varric sat with a half empty journal spread in his lap, quill poised but not moving. The ink in fact had dried while the dwarf stared into the fire, apparently lost in thought. A small frown drew his brows together, and he seemed to be chewing on something, though Varen couldn’t see that he had any food or remnants of a meal anywhere near him.

She cleared her throat as she came up to him, and his pensive expression vanished entirely. In its place was a charming smile. “So, now that Cassandra’s out of earshot, are you holding up all right?” he asked, much to Varen’s surprise. It must have shown on her face, for he continued, “I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

Varen half-laughed and shook her head. “I can barely keep up,” she admitted quietly, as he shuffled over to allow her some space on the giant log he occupied. “But, I’m… kind of just glad I’m standing.”

Varric nodded, ignoring the hollow look in Varen’s eyes. He knew that all to well, and no amount of words regardless of who said them or how clever they were, would ever heal that gaping hole. Companionship was what helped. And time. He allowed Varen both, “I still can’t believe you survived Cassandra. You’re lucky that you were out cold for most of her frothing rage.”

He sounded like a man that had weathered it personally. Maybe he had. Which reminded her… Varen awarded Varric a sly, knowing smile. _I found him, Isabela._

“So, you’re here with the chantry?” Varen asked, knowing what the answer would be already.

Varric chuckled and shook his head. “No. No… _technically_ I’m a prisoner. Just like you. Cassandra brought me along so that I could talk to the Divine.”

“About Kirkwall,” Varen finished for him.

Varric glanced her way, wondering just what she was angling for. “You read my book?” he asked, with the nonchalance of asking about the weather.

Varen shrugged. “I got as far as the Deep Roads. My literary skills aren’t… really all that good. I read slow. And then we got blown up.” She shrugged. Varric nodded.

“Yeah, to talk about mages,” Varric affirmed. He was quiet for a moment longer, until he sat back and stared at Varen square in the face. There was a firmness to him that was entirely unexpected. “The _Dalish_ have _my_ books?”

Varen cocked an eyebrow at him. “No,” she said, and he deflated instantly. “I got it from the pirate that brought us from Wycome.”

He nodded. “Knew you were Marcher...” he commented. Then, he frowned. “ _Pirates_ have my book?”

“This one did at least,” Varen replied. Her tone was even, calm – but she could not stop the wicked grin that split her lips. “She bid me find you, actually.”

Varric was silent, though the expression clearly read: _Please, tell me she wants an autograph and not money._ “What’s this pirate’s name?”

“Isabela,” Varen replied.

Varric’s expression turned soft as putty. He smiled to himself, nodding. Bless that woman – she was far kinder and generous than anyone ever gave her credit for, especially her.

“My Keeper contacted her through Merrill, actually,” Varen explained, garnering the same curiosity that Isabela had when the subject was brought up. “Long story; in short, she’s still one of the People.” That at least seemed to satisfy Varric. It was the easiest explanation and meant much.

“I have a favor to ask of you, actually,” Varen broached carefully, “To be handled with care and subtly. Can I ask that of you?”

Varric nodded. “Ask me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I didn’t come alone,” Varen said, speaking in quiet conspiratorial tones. Varric understood immediately; whoever they were, if they were alive they’d be under suspicion. Now, he didn’t think Varen had done anything wrong, besides being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He didn’t think her companions had either. She was a prickly, stoic sort from what he saw of her; all even faces and angry eyes, but she seemed to have a noble sort of soft spot to her. He could just tell that about people; occupational gift. “I need to know if they are alive and safe. And I need to get them back home.”

“I’ll have my people look for Dalish casualties,” he replied, “they won’t be hard to miss, regardless of what they look like. As for getting them back home, I suppose you have a plan for that.”

“Isabela was supposed to swing back around after a month or so, pick us back up. If they’re alive they’ll be heading that way and staying with a clan on the coast – I need to fly a message to her. Make sure she knows they need her still. And I was supposed to tell Isabela you were alive and safe. You are both of those, I presume?”

Varric chuckled and nodded. “Alright, but it won’t go by bird,” he warned Varen, “Leliana knows every bird that goes in and out of this village, she’ll know one’s missing and come hunting for who sent it.”

“Her eyes are cold,” Varen said, “I don’t want to get on her bad side.”

“Neither do I,” Varric agreed emphatically. “I’ll have one of my people take it.” It would have to be an elvhen one. If he sent a human or a dwarf and they ran into her Dalish friends they’d likely get shot on sight.

“Thank you,” Varen said, reaching to gently touch Varric’s shoulder. The contact was brief, but meaningful.

Varric smiled. “Anytime.”

Varen nodded and stood. “Has anyone told you we’re leaving for the Hinterlands at dawn tomorrow?” The warmth she’d just had for him had instantly melted. He stared up at a woman as frigid as Leliana.

Well, looks like there was a wealth of sneaky people here. Felt like home. “No,” he said slowly, “this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Cassandra, myself, you and Solas,” Varen replied. “Make sure you’re ready.”

“Sure,” he replied. “Why the Hinterlands?” he asked with no shortage of disdain. There was nothing in the Hinterlands – that’s why they called it that. It wasn’t a journey he was eager to make even if it was relatively short.

“There are people there that they are eager to make our allies,” Varen answered.

“And me?”

“I want you at my back,” Varen admitted, swallowing what felt like stones. Her expression was stony, her eyes… less so.

 _Oh_ , Varric thought. “Alright.”

“One more question, if I may?” Varen broached.

“Shoot.”

“Why do you stay?”

Varric sighed and shrugged. “I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this… Thousands of people died on that mountain,” he replied soberly. His attention was back on the fire; it was easier to say it when you weren’t looking another person’s eyes. “I was almost one of them. And now there’s a hole in the sky. Even I can’t walk away and just leave that to sort itself out.

“ _You,_ on the other hand,” Varric looked up at Varen, and she did not like the look on his face. Her shoulders stiffened under that gaze, “You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a _miracle_.”

 _That was comforting._ Once more, Varen swallowed and nodded, but said little else. Instead, she turned and walked away from the dwarf, and subsequently away from his foreboding proclamation.


	20. On to Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mental Illness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyy look who's on time this week? That's right. Me.  
> For readers who might have the opportunity to Twitter vote, I'd like your thoughts: https://twitter.com/KissyKhan/status/1111046420721790977?s=20
> 
> Some original, some canon banter.  
> I've determined that the more canon dialogue there is that I should include a second chapter to provide more new information being processed from here on out.  
> (Sadly, this chapter does not count.)

Unfortunately, the direction that Varen had chosen to stoically walk away from Varric led past the tavern rather than down the steps to what she assumed was her cottage. There had been a throng of people down there, waiting expectantly for their turn to speak with her, and she couldn’t go back the way she came, so she was forced up the little alley to her right.

People surrounded her almost instantly, pressing little tokens of luck and thanks into her hands. They buried her with gratitude and it had taken nearly three hours for her to extricate herself from their company. In that time she’d been given food to eat – which she couldn’t in good conscience refuse. Food was a necessity of survival, and no family or people willingly gave it away unless they _meant_ to provide and care for you as if you were their own. To refuse was a grievous insult. At least, such was the case among the Dalish clans – how much different could shems be in that respect?

She was so full she was sick – and only the heavy bread they gave her kept her from getting terribly drunk. But she begged their forgiveness and she rose to her feet, with her head as puffy as clouds. “I really should be getting ready,” or “resting,” and all such excuses. They were insufferably understanding. Shemlen weren’t supposed to be so damned _welcoming_ and _nice,_ damnit.

The sun was well passed noon by the time she had exited the tavern. She stood at the entrance, debating which way wouldn’t win her another round of pleasantries, another round of suffocating closeness with other people. Left or right? Left seemed to have only a few cottages pressed up against the mountain so that is the way she went.

And it was fortunate too, for once she started that way she saw the elvhen mage that had helped her on the mountain. He was a flat-ear but nevertheless was someone, _someone_ that might make her feel a little more at home. He certainly wouldn’t be a city-elf as an apostate…

Yet, she did not expect one of her political errands to be waiting nearby. She felt a little like a mouse trapped in a ring of cats. Before she could hide from her duties with the apostate she had been stolen by the healer. From there, as he had to run to the quartermaster to deliver some salves and then she spent time answering to _that_ political meeting. And _then_ she had to deliver something to an armorer, and really she should see Cullen and the troops and before she knew it she had spoken to everyone she had hoped to avoid and her entire day was gone.

She stood at the edge of the frozen lake, watching the shadows of sunset engulf the tops of the mountains. The temperature had dropped drastically in the valley, and she found herself freezing in the bitter wind. Still she could not bring herself to go back into the village.

So she stood there, warming her toes and her hands and the tips of her ears with magic for as long as she could. Which wasn’t long however – she was exhausted – and found herself unable to channel the Fade any stretch of time.

There was little else for her to do but trudge back to Haven. She’d be even more exhausted if she didn’t sleep soon.

That quickly became out of the question as Varen learned one very important lesson about the shemlen she'd never given thught to before. Their eyes did not reflect light in the darkness. Under the dim light of the Breach they were nothing but dead-eyed shadows drifting listlessly through the darkness, melding in and out of great wriggling shapes with so many legs.

_So many legs._

Varen froze in the gates of Haven, eyes searching fruitlessly for a face in the darkness and finding none. She found she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see straight – just darkness and great looming shadows. Her legs felt like mud. Her heart pounded.

Swallowing her fear, gagging on her own tongue, she stepped back and fled Haven.

 

Varen spent the night in an old dilapidated shack, just on the other side of the soldier’s sprawling tent city. It was no aravel, but it had sweet smelling herbs and enough incense in it that when she closed her eyes she could at least pretend she was home.

Her night passed fitfully with shadows nibbling at the edges of her mind whether she was awake or asleep. Dark purple bags sat under her eyes as the first edges of sunlight began to creep over the mountains.

Dawn.

She couldn’t help but groan; she wanted nothing more than to sink in among the furs and lay there for eternity. Waste away or maybe sleep for as long as her body would allow. She wondered if that’s what uthenera was like. The desire not to feel.

But she had a duty. She gave her word and she was bound to it. Soon she could go home. Soon she would be with her people. Varen clutched onto that harder than anything else. What she would give to have Ralath and Nethras at her side. But they were long gone; halfway to the coast, hopefully. Or dead.

_Creators guide her. Protect them._

She pulled herself from the cottage’s little cot and gathered what necessities she could. These quarters had been long abandoned – she felt no remorse stealing what she needed. An assortment of empty bottles, dirty from dust and neglect, dried herbs and a smattering of furs, blankets and other traveling necessities.

Her staff had been left in the cottage within Haven. She’d have to get it – perhaps the village would be quiet so early in the morning. Perhaps she could stomach that, but she dread stepping foot back inside the gates.

Three gentle knocks sounded on the door, and Varen’s stomach plummeted. Had they found her? She crept toward the shuttered window and peered out between the slats to see half-bare feet and brown leg-wrappings. Elf… an elfy-elf.

_Oh!_

Varen pulled open the shack’s door with a creak to see Solas ready to leave. He wore the same traveler’s garb as before, along with a well-loved traveler’s satchel. In addition, he carried not one but two staves.

“I thought you would want your staff,” he said quietly, holding it out for her. Gratefully she took it, and stepped aside to let him in.

“How did you know I was here?” She asked as she shut the door quietly behind him.

“I didn’t,” he explained, “But as you are _Dalish._ I figured you would not want to sleep within Haven’s walls.” The way he said Dalish was neither warm nor kind, but still did not entirely sound cruel. He was here, after all.

“The shemlen’s eyes are empty,” she explained reluctantly. She seemed a little foolish – like a child afraid of the dark. “They don’t glow, they don’t shine. They’re just… dead.” she swallowed.

To his credit he seemed understanding; sympathetic. Yet, there was a hardness to the set of his brows. Not truly a frown in its purest sense, but it gave him a rather hateful air. “Like they are missing something.” He added.

“Yes,” she affirmed quietly. “Thank you,” she said, lifting the staff indicatively. “I appreciate it.”

“It was no trouble,” he said dipping his head to her.

“Are the others ready?” she asked, turning to gather the rest of her stolen things.

“I left Cassandra at the gates,” he replied, “I have not seen Varric.”

Then she had a little time, at least. Still, he’d most likely appear by the time she made it back. Best not to dawdle, besides, idle hands brought idle thoughts and those would drive you mad. With Solas in tow, she exited the little shack.

“You are away from your clan,” he broached, as they walked down the little path that led around the hill that separated the shack from the soldiers’ tents. “Did they send you here?”

Varen cast him a wary glance. “Why do you ask?”

He seemed a little put out by that. “Curiosity,” he replied, as if insulted that asking questions was somehow wrong.

“What do you know of the Dalish?” Varen asked instead, turning the question back to him.

He seemed eager enough to answer, “I have wandered many roads in my time, and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion.”

“Crossed paths?” she inquired, arching a brow at his phrasing.

He smiled apologetically, spreading his empty hand, palm up. It was a subtly indication of his intentions: open, welcoming. “I mean that I offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition.”

Varen smiled at that. That did sound like the Dalish. “Your face is bare,” she pointed out, as if that alone answered everything. Solas awarded her with an expression that clearly stated he did not follow her as closely as she intended, whether by choice or ignorance. She shrugged, “We’re still the same,” she amended.

He scoffed. “The Dalish I met felt… differently on the subject,” he replied icily. Varen again only grinned. It was natural, and normal. Regardless of what he wanted to share, or where he came from, she sided with her people despite what he insinuated.

As they rounded the tents, quiet of men save for two on watch, Solas and Varen spied Cassandra and Varric waiting at the gates. Cassandra was pacing impatiently, Varric leaned against the stone gate tower and occupied himself by cleaning his nails with a little knife.

“There you are,” Cassandra called as the duo neared. “You did not spend the night inside Haven-”

“No,” Varen replied, cutting her off.

Cassandra frowned and pursed her lips. “Why?”

Varen did not answer. “Which way to the Hinterlands?” she asked instead.

Cassandra was quiet, clearly not happy with her question having been ignored. Varric meanwhile watched with understanding – though the reasons he thought she spent the night outside were wrong.

Finally, she sighed and pointed in the direction that they had previously come from. “That way.”

Varen nodded and turned on heel and marched in that direction, leaving her companions scrambling to catch up. Varric trailed far behind, mumbling something about the pace being ridiculous now that she was healthy and hale.

“Is this how fast you always walk?” he wheezed as they went up the hill.

“Yes,” she replied calmly.

“Maker,” Varric grumbled. “Well slow down, or I’ll be dead by the time we get there. Is even terrain too much to ask for?”

Cassandra grinned, she had taken up position in line just behind Varen, and was secretly rather pleased walking in the elf’s foot prints. It was far easier to travel not having to forge a path through shin-deep snow. “Is there a problem?” she called back to Varric.

His reply was preceded by a noise of sheer frustration. “ _You_ might be used to traipsing through the countryside––––punching dragons, interrogating people, or whatever it is you did before this. _I'm_ from the city.”

Cassandra only laughed in reply. Varen shook her head. They bickered like Ralath and Nethras. She’d be terribly heart sore by the time they reached their destination if they kept it up. Even more than she was already. Yet the harder she tried to put distance between her and the group the closer Cassandra followed, which left Solas and Varric bringing up the rear nearly a hundred paces behind them.

“Slow down,” Cassandra instructed, stopping to wait for the other two companions. Solas didn’t seem bothered by the walk, Varric looked ready to shoot something.

Varen sighed, but stopped anyway. She surveyed the country-side, glittering with snow, and pretended she was elsewhere.

Didn’t last long, though. “Does it trouble you?” Cassandra inquired. Instead of watching Solas and Varric’s arduous ascent, she was watching Varen.

Without turning to face her, Varen replied. “Does what trouble me?”

“The Mark,” said Cassandra.

Varen’s lips pursed. She’d largely blocked the thrumming out, but when she focused she felt her mind pulled toward it, like something was calling to her. Or that something was watching from the other side. “No,” she replied flatly.

Cassandra frowned and turned away. So be it.

 

That was how their journey passed for the next few days. Varen trudging tirelessly through the snow, hard enough that she felt close to tears from exhaustion by the time they made camp – only way she able to sleep at night. Cassandra followed close behind and instructed her to stop so that Solas and Varric could catch up. When the party was all together, she and Varric would bicker endlessly. Solas meanwhile walked silently, listening, watching and keeping Varric company when Varen’s pace threatened to leave him behind.

When they finally reached the hinterlands and the snowfall decreased to a little dusting over the hills, the foursome was in sorry spirits. The bickering had ceased almost entirely, leaving them to walk in silence.

That night, as Varen started the fire and Solas set the wards for the night, Cassandra decided it was time to touch base with the little group. It was the first words she’d spoken since noon. “The Crossroads is not far from here,” she stated, nodding her head down the old wagon road they’d been following. It drifted in between the trees, around rocks and fallen branches to disappear down around the side of a hill. Varen loathed taking it, but it had been empty thus far, and afforded them a quicker passage through the rough terrain. Plus, it meant Varric complained a little less about being out in the wilderness.

“Mother Giselle will be there tending to the refugees,” she explained. “Fighting between renegade templars and apostates have driven them from their home. We will no doubt see them on the road before we get there.”

“So the Conclave is destroyed and everyone decides fighting each other is the best course of action,” Varen sighed softly.

“It is my understanding that both parties believe the other responsible,” Cassandra replied. “If Mother Giselle dies any hope of Chantry support dies with her. It is imperative that we reach her before she is caught in the middle.

“Leliana sent her scouts ahead of us to determine the best route, we should meet them tomorrow,” she finished abruptly. It looked like she wanted to say more, but she clamped her mouth shut and said no more.

Neither did anyone else, which seemed to bother Varric the most. However, it was Solas who spoke first. Despite the prickling unease and discomfort of his other three companions, he seemed perpetually unfazed. No matter what happened, it was no more frustrating than discovering you had lint in your pockets.

“The mages and the templars chose a poor location for working out their differences,” he said dryly.

Varen smiled. It was good for guerrilla warfare. Perhaps the apostate was unaccustomed to fighting. “Hopefully the Inquisition can find some way to help these people.”

“Hopefully,” Cassandra agreed.

Another round of awkward silence between the trio. Solas meanwhile doled out the evening’s rations with calm and ease. Only an hour or so of companionable association before he could drift off into dreams and his own thoughts; an hour was not so long.

Cassandra shifted and finally set her sword and shield aside, careful to place them down on a sackcloth she had brought to keep them safe and out of the snow. Such small amounts of moisture and cold would not harm them outright but was just as dangerous as the oil of your hand on the blade. Eventually it would destroy their usefulness.

“It occurs to me that I do not know much about you,” she commented, looking pointedly at Varen. She received little more than a glare from the elf.

“What do you want to know,” Varen asked, eyeing Cassandra suspiciously.

Cassandra paused, thought and then shrugged. “I’m… not sure. Where are you from?”

Naturally she asked such a simple question, but it still surprised Varen. “You don’t know?” she inquired, tilting her head to the side.

“I suppose I could ask Leliana. She has collected a frightening amount of information on you. But I don’t want to ask her. I want to hear it from you.”

Varen’s blood ran cold. What defined a ‘frightening amount?’ She fought the urge to glance at Varric. Had he betrayed her? She was foolish to trust him, but she had thought that because he was dwarven and a prisoner himself (technically) that he posed no threat to her. Birds of a feather. Guess she was wrong…

“Free Marches.” Varen stated, looking back toward the fire. In doing so, she was able to cast her attention to Varric – who by the expression on his face – seemed innocent of the charges he was being unwittingly accused of.

Cassandra’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? I didn’t think your people roamed that far north, clearly I’m mistaken. Did you come alone?”

Varen was silent, so Cassandra opted for another question in its place. She knew she would not receive an answer to the first one. “Do you intend to go back?”

Varen swallowed. She was sure she was not able to keep her expression neutral, so this time she did answer truthfully. “If I had the choice I would go now.”

Cassandra’s face fell. Though it was difficult to discern under her armor, her shoulders slumped as well. Nevertheless, she nodded her agreement to Varen’s desires. “Then I hope you can, once this business is done.”

That alone, surprised Varen. This shemlen, for all her sharp edges was a rather kind soul, she thought. Rather like Isabela. Perhaps, Varen thought, she judged them too harshly and too quickly.

Varric found the brusque answers almost intolerable, almost as much as the bickering and the silence. Was it really that hard for elves to play nice? For once? “So,” he began, commandeering the conversation that _wasn’t_ happening. “Who do you think is the toughest: Josephine, Leliana, or Cassandra?”

Cassandra looked up, shocked and appalled. “I'm right _here_ , you know.”

“That doesn't rule you out, Seeker,” Varric grinned back at her.

Solas was thoughtful for a moment, then said: “Cullen's not up for consideration?”

“Curly? They just keep him around to look pretty,” Varric laughed.

“Mmm, then – if  you'll forgive me, Seeker – I would hazard Leliana,” Solas decided. Varen agreed, though she did not speak up. Cassandra looked a little put out, but she herself could not deny Leliana’s steel. She had certainly weathered enough tragedy and trouble.

Once again, the conversation shifted, leaving Varen out of the discourse. “I've wondered: How did you know to approach us, Solas?" Cassandra asked, using Varric's icebreaker to end the silence of their camp. "The Breach opened, we were scrambling and barely had time to think... and there you were.”

Solas’s reply was easy, and he smiled despite himself. “I went to see the Breach for myself. I did not know you would be there. I'd come to hear of the Conclave, but did not want to get close,” he explained.

Cassandra frowned, but could not deny providence. Too many things lined up for this not to be the Maker’s doing. “Hmm. Lucky for us, then. I confess Solas, I'm surprised you decided to remain.”

“Rifts in the Veil imperil both this world and the Fade. The damage to the Veil affects all of southern Thedas... perhaps even all the world.”

“Just the same, I wondered if you might leave now that we have a plan to seal it,” Cassandra commented. There wasn’t an ounce of judgment in her voice, she believed the same of Varric; and wished he _had left_ sometimes.

“I take my commitments seriously, Seeker. Come what may, I shall see this through,” Solas replied. Varen admired such resolute adherence to duty

“You stay around for the same reason I do, Chuckles,” Varric commented, shaking his head, ruefully. There wasn’t a day in the past few weeks he hadn’t regretted that decision, but he couldn’t just leave. He was stuck in the mud, it seemed. And hated it.

“Seeker, you initially believed our ‘Herald of Andraste’ was involved in the attack on the Conclave, yes?”

Varen looked up at Solas curiously. And frightened… she wasn’t sure of his gamble, but she wasn’t keen on bringing up the old idea that she might be behind everything. It increased the chances of her dying.

“I did. The evidence seemed damning, given the lack of an alternative,” Cassandra replied.

“Yet you changed your mind.”

“You also heard the voices at the temple - is it so surprising I listened to them?” Cassandra inquired, leveling her gaze upon Solas.

He returned her gaze with a sad smile. There was approval though, in his clear blue eyes. “Sadly, yes. Too few invested with authority possess the courage to alter their course. They fear the appearance of weakness.”

Cassandra shook her head and stated resolutely: “The truth is more important than my reputation, and anyone willing to accuse me of weakness is welcome to try.”

“I’d like to see that,” Varric commented. Anyone brave enough to challenge the Seeker certainly had balls of steel.

“Solas,” Cassandra asked “have you always lived alone? Out in the wilderness, as an apostate?

 “For the most part,” Solas replied.

“Would that not be incredibly trying?”

“People can be trying, mankind most of all,” Solas responded. Varric had to laugh; Cassandra was stunned into agreement.

“That... is an excellent point,” she conceded.

The rest of the evening passed as such. The coldness that had blanketed their small band seemed to dissipate as they talked companionably over the fire. The overarching theme of the Breach was always present; but there was comfort in companionship.

Varen still kept herself at a distance as she watched her little party warm up to each other. Formality still reigned, manners and the endless egg-shell dance, but there was true friendship forming between them. It was rather beautiful to watch, even if she did not partake in it herself.

Her thoughts strayed toward home, to her people. Who she could and could not trust. Most of all, her thoughts strayed the shadows at the edges of her mind – what lay in wait for her ready to devour her as soon as she dropped her guard.


End file.
